Wedded to a Wayne: A Finn World Holiday Romance

Chapter One

Tanisha

I should change my name to Cliché. Tanisha Cliché Chahal.

I won’t say it has a flattering ring to it, but at the moment it feels all too accurate. Don’t believe me?

Not only did I run away from being trapped in an arranged marriage, but I’m technically an heiress. Of course, I took the smaller inheritance I got years ago and cofounded a company now worth millions, but still, if the shoe fits. Speaking of shoes, I also wear long, flowing, romantic skirts to hide my prosthetic leg, which would have made me unmarriageable to anyone but a scoundrel in need of funds if this were a Gothic romance.

My mother actually spent years mourning my prospects, but she comes from a very traditional Indian family, so that shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.

If I were white, British and fictional, I’d be the perfect romance heroine.

Oh, and we can’t forget the whole virgin-at-twenty-eight thing. Or the fact that my best friend is part of a gaggle of guys—not seven dwarfs, but ten attractive foster brothers—who were always around to make sure I didn’t bite the wrong apple.

But let’s not talk about that right now.

I have an appointment meant to end this trope once and for all and take control of my destiny.

A glance at my computer tells me he’s due to arrive at my new office in less than three minutes, so I pull a compact mirror out of my desk drawer and check to make sure my hair is still styled and there’s nothing in my teeth.

I peruse the neatly organized rows of lip balm in the drawer, picking strawberries and cream for the occasion, and apply it methodically to my lips. The action helps to relax me.

My collection is a bit on the unusual side, I know. I’m also irritatingly organized, I own a personally engraved label maker and I watch too much reality television.

My habits are arguably eccentric, but I’ve never done anything really crazy before. Not until my brother upended my safe, organized, shiny-lipped world and sent me flying across the country to join Joey’s new life with a fresh start of my own.

I haven’t told him anything about this. Joey Redmond isn’t just my ride or die and best friend since middle school, he’s my roommate and business partner. We’ve always told each other everything. But not this. Initially, it was because I was worried about his health and stress levels and didn’t want to add anything more to his plate. Now he’s dealing with another problem altogether—namely, his growing feelings for his handsome new neighbor.

Liar. That’s not why you didn’t tell him.

Okay, so maybe I knew he’d think this was a bad idea and worried he’d talk me out of it. We made a deal years ago to accept each other’s crazy, but this might be too much, even for him.

“Ms. Chahal? Mr. Wayne is here to see you.”

I drop the lip balm and turn so fast I knock over a cup filled with identical pencils before managing a frazzled smile for my assistant. “Thank you, Ann. Would you mind getting us some tea? And then I’d like us not to be disturbed for the rest of our meeting.”

“Right away.” The efficient woman disappears and I take a bracing breath.

I can do this.

Emerson Wayne walks through the door with a languid, easy stride that reminds me more of a panther than an accountant, and my racing heart drops to my fluttering stomach at the sight of him. He does this to me every time. Hot and bothers me.

Am I really doing this?

“Looks good out there,” he says as he closes the door behind him and approaches my desk. “The last time I came here with the boys, you didn’t have all that furniture in the waiting area.”

“We’ve made a few additions,” I finally manage. “Please, sit down, Emerson.”

He’s shaved off his goatee since the first time I met him, but now I think he might be growing a beard because he has a few days’ worth of dark stubble shadowing his strong jawline.

It doesn’t occur to me that he forgot to shave. This man rarely does anything he doesn’t intend to. It’s a trait I admire.

He takes off his glasses to clean them on the white t-shirt he’s wearing under his sweater, giving me a glimpse of dark skin and ridges of muscle that hint at a six-pack.

When I look up, he’s watching me from beneath his thick set of lashes and I can’t help blushing.

Shameless. Stop objectifying the poor man.

“Your email was intriguing.” He sets his wire frames back in place and focuses in on me. “Birds and stones and time crunches. Our last conversation had to do with introducing Langston to the ballplayer who gave him that autograph as a surprise. For some reason, I don’t think that’s what this is about, is it?”