A Not So Meet Cute(14)

Money shouldn’t be a motivator, but hell, the prestige of it is.

I grip the back of my neck in frustration. Dad is probably looking down at me, laughing his ass off, thinking I got myself into one hell of a situation this time. Growing up, even though I was the oldest, I was also the troublemaker, the one who pushed the limits. Not the typical firstborn personality, but I’d push and push and push until I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and Dad would just sit back and laugh while I attempted to become unstuck. I always succeeded, but this time around, I’m not so sure I’ll be able to.

I’ve performed my fair share of miracles, but finding a woman to fall in love with me, accept my proposal, and get pregnant in three days seems like a bit of a stretch.

If only a girl could just fall right in my lap, willing and ready to go through this ruse with me. Someone, anyone . . .

I turn the corner and almost run straight into a confused ball of brunette.

“Oh, sorry,” I apologize as I grip both of her arms to keep her from toppling over into the grass.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” she snaps at me while pulling away.

“Jesus,” I say, holding my hands up. “It was an accident.”

She steadies herself and then adjusts her long, brown ponytail. I quickly take her in. She’s a small thing, petite, head barely reaches my chin. Her skin has that California glow to it that tells me she has time to hit up the beach or pool, and the definition in her arms makes me believe she has time to go to the gym as well. Probably some housewife out for a walk, trying to get her steps in before the husband comes home from a late night at the office.

When she turns to face me, though, hell . . . I’m struck in the goddamn chest as her light green eyes meet mine. A seafoam color, so light that it’s almost startling against her natural, thick black lashes.

Damn.

Her eyes quickly roam my body and then meet mine again, but this time, she’s not hostile, more . . . frustrated.

“Sorry, I’m just . . . ugh, I’m lost. And I shouldn’t be telling a complete stranger I’m lost because that’s an invitation to take advantage of me. But my phone died, and I can’t remember which way to go.”

“Oh, so you don’t live around here?”

She scoffs. “I’m wearing four-year-old leggings from Target. Trust me, I don’t live around here.” And then, as if she remembers something, she says, “Uh, I mean, I’m from here. I, uh . . . I’m posh and all those things.” With a deep exhale, her shoulders slump and she rests her hands on her hips. “Who am I kidding? This was a stupid-ass idea, and now I’m lost and hungry and my mom is going to call the cops if I don’t come home soon.”

Oh shit, how old is this girl? I assumed old enough to look at, but if her mom is worried . . .

“Being that it’s a school night, I can see why she’d be worried,” I say. “You can use my phone if you want.”

She stands taller. “School night? How old do you think I am?”

I grip the back of my neck. “I don’t know. You said your mom would be worried.”

“Because she’s an overprotective mother and I’m a twenty-eight-year-old loser who gets lost in a rich neighborhood while trying to find a rich husband.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Uh-huh.” She folds her arms over her chest, which props up her breasts in that already spectacular sports bra. “Tried to look for a rich husband today. Not a gold digger, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just seeking revenge for a high school reunion. You know the deal.”

“I’m unfamiliar with needing to find a rich husband.”

“So, you’re not gay?”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. This girl holds nothing back. “Do I seem gay?”

“I mean, if you want to lay down stereotypes, then, no, you look more like an alpha asshole you might find in the boardroom. It’s the haircut and watch.”

I glance down at my watch and then back at her. The watch is really expensive. “I get the alpha in the boardroom, but why the asshole?”

She scans me, her nose scrunches, and she says, “Your cologne. Smells too good. Nice guys never smell that good.”

“From this brief conversation, I’m going to assume you found no takers in your rich husband search.”

“Nope.” She pops the P. “You’re actually the first guy I’ve run into today. Imagine that. Received plenty of judgmental stares from the ladies around here, though.”

“It’s probably because of your four-seasons-ago-Target leggings,” I joke.

“Yeah, they can totally tell that kind of stuff.” She tilts her head to the side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I answer, sort of enjoying this odd encounter.

“You’re rich, right?” When I don’t answer, she rolls her eyes and adds, “I’m not going to pull out a nail file and try to stab you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I read this article on how to snag a rich guy, and I feel as though one of the suggestions was wrong.”

I stick my hands in my pockets and casually say, “I have money.”

She snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure you just have it.” Shaking her head, she says, “Okay, you’re loaded, let’s go with that—because it’s obvious. I want to know, do rich guys like braids?”