Page 20 of An American in London

“We’d need to do some prep. Realistically, we’ll need to work hard to make our relationship seem authentic.”

“What kind of prep?”

“We need to get to know each other. You’ll need to visit my house. We’ll need to learn each other’s backstories and foibles. I offered you a lot of money to be my fiancée because there’s a lot at stake, but it requires work and preparation.”

“What about Mr. Jenkins? The bank? I’m trying to get on the management fast track. If I start hanging out with a client ... Well, it could be a conflict of interest or something.”

Ben sighs. “I can talk to James. I’ll get you on the management fast track.”

My stomach swirls with a mixture of emotions. I shake my head. “No. I want to get it because I deserve to be there. Although ...” Myvoice trails off. What was it Melanie said about negotiating for more? She meant more cash, but maybe I could ask for something more valuable than that. “You could agree to keep your investments in the bank.”

Ben frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve got your annual health check with the bank coming up. Mr. Jenkins really doesn’t want you to withdraw any funds.”

“I’m not going to withdraw any funds,” he says simply.

“Can you put that in writing?” I ask.

“I don’t need to. I’m not going to withdraw funds. I never have. I don’t invest with the bank because of account performance. I do it because of a personal connection. James and my father are close. As long as James is there, my money will stay.”

That’s good news, I suppose, but it wasn’t exactly a negotiation. “There will need to be an NDA,” I say. “I would hate for Mr. Jenkins to hear about any of this.”

He lets out a small groan I feel between my thighs. “I definitely don’t want James to hear about this. An NDA is a good idea. You should take some time to think about this. I know I’m asking a lot.”

I nod. It feels like a lot. Melanie made it sound like a bunch of fun, and she’s probably right—I don’t want to regret anything about my time in London. Still, I’m nervous. Ben is a powerful guy who could make life difficult for me. I could do something wrong, say the wrong thing and ruin everything for him. And myself.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “I’m not pressuring you to make a decision, just wondering if there are any concerns I can address.”

“If I mess up, then what?” I ask. “If I say the wrong thing to your snobby duke and we get tossed out on our asses. What happens?”

“Risk allocation,” he says simply, like I’m supposed to know what that means. He must see the error message my brain spits out in my expression. He adds, “It’s a risk taking you, but it’s my risk. If something goes wrong, then I lose out. It won’t affect your payment or the other terms of our agreement. That said, we can mitigate the risk by doing the prep.”

“You’re not going to sue me for being a bad fiancée?”

He shakes his head. “Americans—you love a lawsuit. No, I’m not going to sue you. We can set out a limitation of your liability in the contract, if that helps.”

He has a solution for everything. “You really need my help, huh?”

He looks at me with a stare so heavy and intense I have to look away. “I do need your help, but you shouldn’t say yes to this unless you feel entirely comfortable.”

I suck in a breath. Entirely comfortable being someone’s paid fiancée for the weekend? Is that even possible?

He pulls out his phone and starts to type. “I’m going to call you in forty-eight hours. If it’s no, you don’t need to answer. If it’s yes ... pick up. But make sure this works for you just as much as it works for me.”

I can feel this conversation coming to a natural conclusion, which means the window of opportunity to ask for more money is closing. I could wait until he calls in two days, but it feels dishonest to keep my demands to myself.

“And what did you say you’d pay?” I ask. “Twenty thousand dollars?” My pulse is racing as I try to summon up the courage to ask for more when it’s already so much.

He nods, glancing between me and his phone.

“It’s a lot of money for a weekend,” I say. My palms are starting to sweat, and I pick up my coffee to distract myself. He’s still looking at his phone. This is it. If I don’t ask now, Melanie will never forgive me. “But you want the prep time too.”

He looks up and waits for me to elaborate.

I wince and say, “What do you think about ... twenty-fivethousand?”

His expression softens, almost like I’ve said something to please him. “Let’s make it an even thirty. There’s a lot to do.”

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