Page 11 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

“Yes, sir,” she mumbles, head bowed, before scurrying out of our sight.

As the tension eases, I catch Emma’s amused giggle. “Your fiancée? You’re incredibly brave, Jonathan. Do you honestly believe I’ll say yes this soon?” she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I offer a lopsided grin. “What can I say? I possess an irresistible charm—and a peculiar knack for bending people to my will.” I say it with a playful cockiness that masks a hint of vulnerability.

Emma rolls her eyes. “If that were true, you wouldn’t need me to be your fake wife.”

I chuckle and guide her toward my office. As we stroll past polished corridors and sunlit recreational nooks, I point out, “I believe in mixing work with leisure. For instance, our library isn’t just for books—it’s a retreat for our weary minds.”

“Impressive,” Emma murmurs, her tone softening as she admires the space.

Inside my office, I gesture for her to take a seat beside my sleek, modern desk. Emma’s eyes wander the room, lingering on the cool gray walls and minimalist décor. A small frown tugs at her lips.

“What is it?” I ask, genuinely curious.

She shrugs, a hint of playful sarcasm in her tone. “Your office feels…depressing. As dreary as the entire company, I’d say. Even the library has a suffocating melancholy to it.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “So now you’re here to critique my interior decorating skills? Is that why you came?”

“No,” she insists, her gaze steady. “I’m here to give you my answer about the offer you and Reed made me.”

A slow grin spreads across my face. “So…does that mean my charm has finally worked its magic?”

Emma fixes me with a look equal parts disdainful and amused. “Not even close. Don’t ever imagine that I find any part of you charming—or attractive, for that matter.”

“Ah,” I reply lightly, “I never claimed attractiveness was my strong suit. But if you ever change your mind…” I let the words hang with a teasing lilt.

Her cheeks heat, and for a moment, the air between us seems charged with an unspoken electricity. “This isn’t where our conversation was supposed to go,” she admonishes gently, and I nod.

“Alright,” I press, “what’s your final verdict? Have you made up your mind?”

Emma pauses, then nods firmly. “I…accept the offer. I’ll be your pretend wife so I can find the inspiration to write my next novel. My agent will finally get some sleep.”

I beam broadly. “Thank you, Emma. I promise you’ll have the best fake husband in town.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a favor if I’m stuck with a fake husband forever.”

I shrug with playful exaggeration. “Well then, consider it a temporary arrangement with a lifetime’s worth of potential favors.” My tone is light, but there’s a sincere warmth beneath the banter. “Does this mean you’ll stop despising me?” I venture, half-teasing.

Emma’s eyes soften as she replies, “I don’t hate you, Jonathan. I just find you insufferable…most of the time.”

I roll my eyes dramatically. “Insufferable, huh? Yet somehow, you agreed to this charade.” I lean in conspiratorially. “I owe you a debt, and you may call in any favor—whatever you desire.”

Her smile turns wicked. “Anything?” she challenges.

“Anything,” I confirm, though a flicker of uncertainty crosses my mind as she savors the power of my words.

Emma reclines in the chair, settling into the comfort of the space. “I can’t wait to call in that favor,” she says with a hint of mischievous promise.

I huff in mock outrage. "And what about the orange juice on my pants? That stain has become a permanent resident!”

Emma throws up her hands. “Really, Jonathan? This is what you’re worried about right now? Of all the moments to complain about your pants? I should walk away from this deal and leave you scrambling for another pretend wife!"

“But you won’t,” I murmur softly, knowing in my heart that despite our bickering, Emma wouldn’t simply abandon this wild arrangement.

She rolls her eyes again and surveys my office with renewed scrutiny. “Frankly, this place is as dreary as you,” she observes, half-joking yet oddly sincere.

I peer around, suddenly noticing the austere gray walls and the stark modernity that lends the room a cold feel. “Maybe you’re right,” I concede, “but an office isn’t meant to be a home, is it?”

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