Chapter 2 - The Stakes of a Stranger
I stared at Claire, trying to find any trace of a joke, a hidden camera crew, or an elaborate prank. But her face remained entirely smooth, professional, and deadpan.
“All right, Claire Whitman,” I said, resting my elbows on the table. “You’ve successfully hijacked my post-rejection dinner. Are you going to explain the marriage proposal, or are we just going to sit here and stare at each other until the waitstaff closes the kitchen?”
She set her wine glass down, the crystal making a soft clink against the wood.
“How desperate are you to get your family off your back?” she asked out of nowhere.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your sister Hannah,” Claire continued smoothly, as if reading from a dossier she had prepared that afternoon. “She set you up tonight, didn’t she? And last month she set you up with an accountant who only talked about tax loopholes. And the month before that, a yoga instructor who tried to sell you essential oils.”
My jaw practically hit the floor. “How could you possibly know about the essential oils?”
“Because my brother is married to your sister’s best friend,” Claire explained, a faint, victorious smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “Word travels fast in Denver’s suburban matchmaking underground. I heard all about the heroic saga of Ethan Cole, the perpetually single construction manager who allegedly needs rescuing from a life of quiet solitude.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a sudden rush of heat crawl up my collar. “So this is what? Some kind of sick sociological experiment? You heard I struck out on a date and decided to kick me while I was down?”
“Not at all,” Claire said, her tone suddenly shifting from playful to razor-sharp business. “I need a husband. Specifically, I need a quiet, stable, completely unremarkable husband who will sign a two-year contract, attend three mandatory family holiday dinners, and then peacefully grant me an uncontested divorce.”
Silence dropped heavily between us. The ambient clatter of the restaurant seemed to fade into a dull hum.
“Let me make sure I’m processing this correctly,” I said slowly. “You just sat down at my table, rejected by my own heartbreak, and pitched a business-merger marriage like we’re corporate executives restructuring a failing startup?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“And what’s in it for me, exactly? Aside from the distinct honor of being your contractual prop?”
Claire reached into her designer leather handbag, pulled out a thick, legal-sized manila envelope, and slid it neatly across the table toward my coffee cup.
I looked down at it, hesitant. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
I flicked open the metal clasp and pulled out a stack of heavy paper. My eyes scanned the top page, and my breath hitched. It was a fully drafted, notarized prenuptial agreement, paired with a certified cashier’s check made out to my commercial construction firm for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—the exact capital injection I needed to buy out my retiring business partner and secure my company’s independence.
“This is insane,” I whispered, staring up at her. “Where did you even get my financial records?”
“Public corporate filings and municipal registry boards,” she replied calmly. “I know your business needs backing. I know you’re too proud to take a bank loan with high interest rates. And I know your grandmother is threatening to disown you if you aren't married by your thirty-fifth birthday next month.”
I went completely rigid. “How do you know about my grandmother?”
May you like
“Hannah talks a lot when she’s three glasses into pinot noir,” Claire said smoothly, taking another sip of her wine. “So, Ethan. Do we have a deal, or would you prefer to go back to being rejected by medical sales representatives who think your gray sweaters lack pizazz?”
I looked at the check. I looked at the prenup. And then I looked into Claire Whitman’s unreadable green eyes, realizing that my quiet, predictable life had just detonated into absolute chaos over a basket of sourdough bread.
