The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

“I did.” His arms burned on the way down and back up. “She told me off at the fundraiser, I announced we were engaged while giving a speech at the event, we made out in the closet, and then we sealed the deal at Vito’s.”

What in the hell was he doing telling his brother all that? It was just the type of ammo Hudson wouldn’t hesitate to use. Just because you can’t stop thinking about that closet doesn’t mean you need to talk about it, dickhead.

“You fucked her at a diner?”

“No, you asshole, we came up with a contract at the diner.”

“Now that sounds more like you.”

“Actually, she insisted.” That had surprised him. It was not what he was expecting from someone with Clover’s resume.

He knocked out five more quick pull-ups before his brother got in his next question. “So what’s she get out of this deal?”

“Fifteen grand.”

“That doesn’t sound legal.”

“It’s not for that.” No matter how much he’d thought about fucking her every which way possible last night. “She’s an employee—well, an independent contractor. I’m not going to sleep with her.”

“Making out was that bad?” Hudson asked.

Sawyer dropped to the ground, glaring at the phone. “I’m not answering that.”

“So it was that good.” Hudson barked out a laugh before using a fake German accent, “Very interesting.”

His brother was a jackass—but one that he needed or this whole plot would implode. Now that was a big picture he didn’t like the looks of. “Are you going to back up my story or not?”

“What happens when Mom finds out that the whole thing was a sham?”

“She won’t.” He’d make sure of that. “Clover and I already discussed it. We’ll come up with a believable breakup story and that will be that.”

“Uh-huh. Sure it will.”

“It’s a business arrangement, and I know those inside and out.”

“Yeah.” His brother chuckled. “But you don’t know shit about women.”

Ten minutes later they had a workable plan and his brother was back to doing whatever it was he did while at his cabin. He always claimed he was with a date or three, but Hudson was always saying stupid shit to cover up the fact that he had a perfectly good brain behind his pretty-boy face. Things like Sawyer not knowing women. He didn’t need to know them. He just had to make sure he and Clover were on the same page, which according to their contract, they were. No need to stress over imaginary details.

Shaking off the doubt creeping across his shoulders, he got on the treadmill, ready to run until even the possibility that his brother was right was gone.

…

Sitting at the table in her sunny kitchen, Clover drained the morning concoction in her Keep It Weird oversize mug—four sugar packets, half a cup of milk, and a generous splash of coffee—without spitting it out in laughter at the look of absolute horror on Daphne’s face.

“You can’t be getting married,” she said, her brown eyes were huge, and if she’d been wearing pearls she would have been clutching them. “You barely know him. What if he’s a serial killer who only gets away with it because of his money and connections?”

The croissant and coffee had just been a trick. As soon as Clover thought she was safe, Daphne had started in on the best friend version of the Spanish Inquisition before helping her throw the contents of her closet into an oversized vintage suitcase she’d gotten at a flea market and restored—with her own little tweaks, of course.

“He’s not a serial killer. He’s a businessman. He’s…” Clover floundered trying to find the perfect word to describe Sawyer Carlyle, but the information she’d gained through her Google-fu after he’d rushed her out of his office yesterday had been frustratingly limited. Their “date” at the charity fundraiser last night hadn’t answered any, either—beyond the fact his kisses melted her brain.

The man may run one of the largest international construction firms in the world, but he wasn’t much of a chatter. A few quotes here or there in various business articles, but no Twitter, no Facebook, no Snapchat, no social media at all. She wasn’t about to tell Daphne that, though…she loved the woman like the sister she’d never had but saying Daphne was a worrywart was like saying soccer players’ legs were a thing of jaw-dropping, panty-melting goodness. It was just a fact of life.

“He’s really busy,?

?? Clover finished lamely.

“You mean he’s really fucking hot,” Daphne said, twisting her miles of dark hair up into a knot on top of her head.