By the time Friday came, I was already losing my mind.

The notice of sale from the bank arrived and I had about three weeks before the house was to be auctioned off. I got the default notice about five months ago and I've dragged it on as much as I could. The mortage payments were too high and it was hard to keep up with it along with the insurance, property taxes and all the utilties. I wouldn't even get started on my other consumer debt.

I went to the bank again to get another loan but considering I was only nineteen without much of a credit history or other collateral, they turned me down. I went to other loan agencies but the interests were so high they were almost criminal. I'd only bury myself deeper into debt if I signed up with any of them.

I needed money and I needed it fast but my paycheck barely covered my personal expenses and if I had to move in three weeks, I needed the money to pay down an apartment if I didn't want to sleep on the streets.

There's money to be had if you would just sign on the dotted line.

Even though I was still stewing in indignation at Brandon's offer, I couldn't resist going over the contract.

Reading it definitely made things seem very real—that marrying him and getting paid for it was not merely just an arbitrary idea.

The marriage would be real—and so would be the lies and the money.

"Why can't just the prince come riding down in his white horse and rescue Cinderella because he couldn't live without her?" I muttered after I finally put the contract down late Thursday night, the revisions scribbled on it in red ink.

Because this isn't a fairytale and Brandon Maxfield is no prince charming.

I convinced myself that night that this was bitter reality and I had decisions to make—there will be no fairy godmothers or true love. Even if money didn't make the world go round, it paid for a lot of its maintenance.

On Friday morning, I went to Marlow's in a light blue cotton sundress and flip-flops, my long, dark blonde hair gathered in a loose bun. I wasn't due for my shift until much later because I worked Friday evenings when the tips were the best.

I was there five minutes before ten and Brandon was already waiting in a booth, reading the morning paper.

"Hey," I said when he finally looked up.

His hazel eyes flickered with some unidentifiable emotion as he appraised me from head to toe.

"Like what you see?" I snapped, irritated by the sight of him because it was either that or I swooned which would not do at all.

"Just thinking that you might clean up better than I hoped," he said as he gestured to the seat across from him. "You look almost... young."

"I am young especially compared to you," I retorted as I slid into the booth and tossed my white canvas bag on the seat next to me. "You're practically ancient—from the caveman era, I believe."

"Good morning to you too, Ms. Samuels," he said dryly. "And yes, I am older and wiser than you."

I scoffed. "Real wise people need not to point it out. Those who wish they were point it out often."

He smiled and set down his paper. "Bad week, huh?"

I sighed and leaned back against my seat, eyeing him in exasperation. "Oh, I'm sure you have a pretty good idea of how great things have been going for me. That's why you look like the cat who got the cream."

"Hmm, this is sounding positively better with each second," he said with a satisfied smirk. "And since I'm pretty certain I'm getting the answer I want today, let us take our time and maybe feed you first. If I'm right about the dire straits you're in, you'e probably been skipping breakfast."

I glared at him as he beckoned one of the waitresses over. "I can afford to feed myself just fine."

He rolled his eyes at me and smiled up at Becca who came to our table and glanced between us in curiosity. "Can we get a plate of your Working Man's breakfast? I'll have some pancakes and bacon for myself."

I opened my mouth to protest that I couldn't possibly eat that much but my stomach growled, and I bit my lip and lowered my gaze, hoping to God that no one heard.

"What would you like to drink, Ms. Samuels?" Brandon asked, surprising me.

"I'll have a cup of coffee, Becs," I told the waitress with a small smile. "Thank you."

Once the waitress was gone, I turned a narrowed glance at him. "A Working Man's breakfast? Really? You think I can eat three pancakes, roasted potatoes, some bacon, ham, pork sausages, scrambled eggs, two pieces of buttered toast and a large raisin scone?"

He just let out an impatient sigh. "If you're going to be my wife, Ms. Samuels, you need to look like it. The starved look isn't a new fashion trend a Mrs. Maxfield would be sporting."

I gave a short laugh. "Starved? I'll tell you that every man in this room thinks I have enough flesh where it matters."

It was true. I've always been on the curvy side but whatever baby fat I may have had I lost in the last year. Working hard and eating little had that end-result.

"A Mrs. Maxfield also doesn't call lascivious interest to herself," Brandon added in a low hiss although his eyes raked over me with something that could only be called lascivious interest. Well, that certainly made things interesting.

"Would you rather have a mousy, frumpy and unattractive Mrs. Maxfield?" I asked with a snort. "Who would ever believe you'd marry one considering your very discerning taste in dating only women with the highest caliber of beauty and poise—"

"—my standards are pretty high—"

"—and narcissism and brainlessness?" I finished with a grin when his smug expression tightened into a frown. "I guess I could call on my acting chops and pretend to be blown away by the prolific undertaking of determining one's outfit to the next charity ball. I mean, how are we to save the world if not in platform heels?"

A smile ghosted on his lips but he quickly chased it away with another frown although his warm hazel eyes held a sparkle of humor. "A Mrs. Maxfield has to be a woman of impeccable taste, pleasant and charming humor, perfect manners and easy flexibility with her husband."

My brows rose. "Flexibility? Do you mean like gymnast-level positions in bed? I danced a little in high school but I don't think I can get my foot over my neck. And you're not supposed to be sleeping with me."

Heat flared in his gaze and his jaw clenched. "No. I meant flexibility in cooperating with her husband in decisions deemed best for her."

I sat back and enjoyed his discomfort before piercing him with a glare. "Be direct, Mr. Maxfield. If you meant subservience, just say it. You expect a Mrs. Maxfield to be entirely in your power, like a puppet whose strings you can pull anytime. A Mrs. Maxfield should never voice contradicting opinions, complain about your extra-marital affairs or point out your excessive ego and greed. She must also turn off a few functioning brain cells to be able to cope with the insipid concerns of the people in your circle if she wants to be able to relate. She needs to be a spineless and superficial arm candy, battery-operated with a million dollars. Did I miss anything?"

"Yes," he muttered with an exasperated sigh. "A Mrs. Maxfield also needs to be less sarcastic."

"I don't know about that," I said as I picked up the contract and handed it to him with a smile. "It's only sarcastic if you actually don't agree with what I said which I thought you did considering all your stipulations here. I just condensed it into a simple characterization—dumbed it down, you know? Understanding the big words might make me too smart and you know we can't have that."

I was spared from a scathing response when Becca arrived with our food. Working at Marlow's, you'd think I'd gag at the smell of its food but I was so hungry that I nearly had tears in my eyes the moment I put a slice of bacon in my mouth. Sure, I've eaten leftovers here but there was a big difference in getting scraps from the kitchen and eating my own meal.

"This isn't signed," he finally said a few minutes after Becca left and he'd scanned the contract.

"Not yet," I replied through a mouthful of pancakes soaked in maple syrup. "I want it amended first with the revisions I made. First two-hundred-fifty thousand upfront on the day of our wedding, second after six months, third on the eighth and the last of it at the end of the year. The separate clothing and spending allowance is fine but I want a separate bedroom, a charity budget and a grant for a full program in any pastry school of my choice. In case I die during the agreed year, all payable amount should be donated to a charity I'll name on my will. If you die before the contract expires, all payable amount you promised me on this contract will be paid out in full by your estate to which I'd have no right to as to be stated by our pre-nup."

"Sounds reasonable," Brandon said as he sat back and studied me with those intense eyes. "Why the charity budget? What for? I'm already on the board of several ones."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I might as well try to spread what wealth I can get out of you. I have a few projects I want to get involved in. Don't worry, I won't be pocketing any of that money. It'll all go to a good cause."

"For someone who seemed really incensed at the idea of taking my money a few days ago, you sure seem eager now to spend it," he commented with a dry laugh. "I'm amenable to all of that. Anything else?"

"I don't want you and your mistresses doing the dirty deed in our marital home," I said, feeling a rush of anger at the image of walking in on Brandon screwing the brains out of a nameless, faceless woman in the home we'll be sharing. "If I catch you doing so, I gain the right to terminate the contract with all of the remaining instalments of the full payment to be deposited directly to me within thirty days after the termination is formalized. It's all in there."

If that condition bothered him, he didn't show, because he only smiled smugly.

"That won't be a problem, Ms. Samuels," he said. "I don't bring my romantic affairs home. If you think that's one way to get out of this with all of the money and without fulfilling your side of the bargain, think again."

I stuck out my tongue at him while making a nauseous face. "Thank God I don't have to sleep with you. You're probably like a stone statue in bed—all cold and emotionless. Aren't your women just better off with a dildo or do they just want shoulders to grab on to so they have you instead?"

Holy guacamole, Charlotte. Where did you learn to talk like that?

The truth was, I was no sex adventuress. Like never. Ever.

But something about Brandon just provoked the worst of my temper. I was saying the damndest things around him all the time.

But instead of getting riled up, his mouth just turned up on one corner, his eyes giving me a lazy, challenging look. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Well. Brandon The Boor can actually flirt.

My cheeks heated up but I just rolled my eyes. "No, thanks. I don't sleep with art pieces especially those who speak when they are either not supposed to or just full of crap when they do."

He assaulted my senses further when he grinned broadly. "It's only crap if they're things you don't want to hear and those usually are the truth."

I hate to admit it but I agreed. "Have I told you I don't like you, Mr. Maxfield?"

"Not in so many words, Ms. Samuels, but you've certainly shown it," he answered with a husky laugh.

Damn it. Why did the man have to be in such good humor today when mine was frayed thin from the stress of the week?

"Well, I've got to do the most damage I can while we're not married yet," I said, squaring my shoulders and thrusting up my chin. "When will I get the revised contract?"

"It'll be ready by tomorrow morning," he promised, folding the contract and slipping it inside his jacket's pocket. "My father is arriving on Sunday and I thought we'd announce it during the family brunch which you're attending with me."

My heart constricted at the thought of having to look Martin in the eye and lying to his face. Him and the rest of the Maxfields.

Oh, God. When this contract ends maybe you can forget about pastry school and become an actress instead. You'll get tons of practice.

"I can't. I have to work Sunday morning," I said.

He scowled. "The contract states you have to quit all your jobs when you marry me."

"It does," I agreed with a nod, downing the last of my coffee. "When I marry you, not before. When is the wedding going to be anyway so I can give Bobby the notice? It's not easy finding and training a new person."

Brandon gritted his teeth because he knew I was right with how the contract was written. "In two weeks but you'll be introduced to everyone as my fiancee before then and it would be unseemly for you to still be working as a waitress when you're engaged to me."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't get my money until after the wedding and I've got to eat before then so I need the job. Besides, what's wrong with that? Gives it a romantic spin, doesn't it, if people think that you fell head over heels in love with a lowly waitress and that you just had to marry her right away?"

"I am not head over heels in love with you," he ground out.

"I didn't say you were," I snapped irritably. "Just that if people think you are. It makes for a better story than leaving the world speculating about what could've possibly motivated you to marry someone poor and unworthy of your precious last name when she has neither money nor your heart."

He scoffed. "I could say it was just my father forcing my hand."

"And what? Show them that Martin is cold and unfeeling father when we both know he isn't?" I asked in exasperation. "Show them that you're a greedy, spineless weasel for not standing up to your old man? Do you think people will truly understand the complexity of this not-so-simple business arrangement?"

"Alright, enough already!" His voice barely rose in volume but the force of his words had me swallowing hard. "You've made your point and I'll acquiesce on this. You can keep your job until a week before the wedding because a bride has to have some involvement in her big day. While you're here, I expect that you'll discourage any kind of advances from anyone trying to get into your pants. It's bad enough that I'm marrying a nineteen-year-old waitress. I don't want the media publishing articles about customers groping my future-bride's ass like it's public property."

"Ah, your despicable charm, as always," I muttered under my breath. "Don't worry. After that incident with Mr. Clarence, I'm not coming within two feet of men with suspicious character unless I'm armed with a baseball bat. The only reason I don't have one right now with you is that it didn't go with the dress. But I hear that salt and pepper shakers dent foreheads real good so don't try anything funny."

"I think I'm absolutely, positively insane for ever considering doing this with you," he groaned, closing his eyes briefly as if in pain.

"I second that wholeheartedly," I said with a grin. "Although I'd like to clarify a point of distinction that you were already a wee bit crazy before you saddled me with your boorish presence."

He opened his eyes and arched a brow at me. "Well, since you're being paid a million dollars to endure my boorish presence, I say endure it quietly. I'd like to go through this year without a permanent migraine which I continue to get because you never stop provoking me."

I tilted my chin up defiantly. "Only because you provoke me first. But I agree with you. I'd like to get through this year myself without being carted off to prison for murdering my husband. If we're to stay married for a year and give a convincing portrayal of a real husband and wife, let's try not get on each other's case."

"I'll do my best," he said with a half-smile.

I nodded. "So will I."

And in that moment, despite our many spirited quarrels in the past week, an understanding clicked between us.

I smiled and popped the last piece of ham into my mouth.

He finished off his pancakes, his eyes smiling as he chewed and watched me.

"What time do you work today?" he asked as he wiped his mouth once we finished eating quietly.

"Six," I answered. "I have to go home and take a short nap because I'll be working until about two to two-thirty in the morning."

He glanced at his watch. "It's only eleven. We can go shopping and I'll have you home by twelve-thirty so you can get a few hours of sleep."

My brows rose. "Shopping? For what?"

"An engagement ring. And maybe a few clothes that don't look so.. worn. I'll have my assistant Marissa arrange for a personal shopper to help you build your new wardrobe but we can get you a few things today."

I groaned. "This can't wait until we're married? I'm not going to start wearing heels, cardigans and pearls here at work."

"The ring you'll need right away if we're to convince my father about the marriage on Sunday," he insisted stubbornly. "A woman doesn't get engaged to Brandon Maxfield and have no rock to show it off."

"I'd like to show off a rock I could knock you out cold with," I muttered under my breath which made him narrow his eyes.

I grinned sweetly, batting my lashes at him at the reminder of our mutual attempt to be civil to each other. "Oh, yes, please. Buy me a Harry Winston large enough to be seen from space. Do you think they'll throw in a body guard with that? I might need it if I'm taking the bus to work everyday."

"I'll have a driver and car assigned to you," Brandon said. "I don't want you roaming the streets unprotected."

I gave him a moony expression. "Aw, darling. It warms my heart to know that you're so protective of me."

He rolled his eyes and pulled out a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and left it on the table. Lucky, Becca.

"I'm protective of all of my investments. You're currently my most vulnerable, not to mention most volatile one," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes.

"How romantic," I grumbled, pouting. "Fine. I'll take the car and the driver and the ring and the clothes. Anything else?"

He smiled as if enjoying my apparent dislike for agreeing with him. "Nothing that I can think of at the moment so we can go shopping. Ready?"

He got up and offered me his hand.

"As ready as I will ever get," I said as I took his hand, fighting the instant urge to run my fingers along his warm skin. "Lead the way, Mr. Maxfield. Show me what the fuss is all about."

"Brandon," he said as we walked together toward the door, the hand he offered me earlier now pressed lightly on the small of my back. "If you and I are going to get married, we should probably call each other by our first names."

I swallowed hard at the possessive way his strong, muscular arm slipped around me as we passed a couple of familiar male customers who waved hi and winked at me. "Yes, Brandon."

"Better," he said with a faint smile, glancing down at me.

"My name's Charlotte," I said as we stepped out on the sidewalk. "Some people call me either Char or Lottie."

He shook his head. "Neither of those names sound particularly appealing. Charlotte suits you better."