Page 47 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
"Doesn't it?" She stood up, smoothing down her dress after setting the papers on my coffee table. "I need to think about this. I need time."
I wanted to argue, to convince her, to promise her that I would make it worth her while. But I could see that pushingwould only drive her away. And she was right. Having impulsive sex really did complicate things.
I nodded. "Okay."
She gathered her purse and cardigan, moving toward the door. I followed her, wanting to say something that would make her stay but not knowing what that might be.
"Sadie," I said as she reached for the doorknob.
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you decide, I meant what I said. We can figure this out. We can protect Eloise, your mother, the school—all of it."
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow."
The door closed behind her and I was alone in my house again. I stood there for several minutes, breathing in the lingering scent of her perfume and trying to process what had just happened.
My phone rang, startling me out of my thoughts. The caller ID showed Dr. Robert Caldwell's name—the chairman of the school board.
"Harrison," he said when I answered. "I hope I'm not calling too late."
"Not at all. What can I do for you?"
"We need to talk. The whole board. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock in my office."
My stomach dropped. "About what?"
"I think you know. This situation with your father's will has gone on long enough. It's time to put an end to this sham."
The line went dead, and I stood there holding my phone, staring at the documents Sadie had left scattered on my coffee table. Twenty-four hours had just become a lot more complicated.
10
SADIE
Iwoke at five thirty with my heart already racing, the events of the previous evening crashing over me in waves. The taste of Harrison's kiss still lingered on my lips, and when I pressed my fingers to my mouth, I could almost feel the phantom pressure of his hands on my skin.
I made coffee with unsteady hands and checked the clock. Kramer would be here in twenty minutes. I'd texted him before I'd even made it home the night before, asking if he could come over early. He'd responded with three question marks and a promise to bring pastries.
When he knocked, I opened the door to find him holding a bag from the bakery downtown and wearing an expression of barely contained curiosity.
"You look terrible," he said, brushing past me into the kitchen. "And you never ask me to come over before seven unless someone's died or you've done someone spectacularly inappropriate."
Kramer Shropshire was the most beautiful man I'd ever met in person—all sharp cheekbones and perfect hair and the kind of effortless style that made other people feel underdressed. Hewas also the only person in my life who'd never needed anything from me, which made him the only person I trusted completely.
"Sit down," I said, pouring coffee into two mugs, "and prepare yourself."
"Oh, good. I love drama with my morning caffeine." He settled into the chair across from me and pulled a croissant from the bag. "Start from the beginning."
I told him everything. The dinner invitation, the expensive wine, the way Harrison had held me when I cried. The kiss, the couch, the aftermath. The will, the marriage requirement, the unspoken proposal that hung in the air between us.
Kramer listened without interrupting, his expression shifting from amusement to shock to something approaching concern. And when he gasped at the arranged marriage part then covered his mouth, I told him Mom was still in detox. When I finished, he sat back in his chair and stared at me.
"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," he said finally. "The father of one of your students—a man you've spoken to maybe three times—invited you to dinner, you ended up having sex with him, and then he showed you legal documents suggesting you should marry him to help him inherit a school."
"That's a very clinical way to put it. And he technically asked me the other day. This dinner was supposed to be a time to discuss it further." I felt gut-sick and exhausted. I had no clue what I was doing with my life and I needed someone to tell me to wake up.
"I'm trying to process." He took a bite of croissant and chewed thoughtfully. "How was the sex?"
