Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie Pembroke
Her first communication in years—and it was from Byron’s secretary.
Her head was suddenly clear, the dizziness and anticipation replaced with hotly righteous anger. How dared they? How dared they dismiss Summer, summon Clara as if she were a servant? How dared they offer to pay her expenses—as long as she provided receipts like an untrustworthy employee?
Although Byron’s father had always thought she was a gold-digging good-time girl, she had just naively hoped Byron believed in her, believed in their daughter. Despite everything.
Byron had spent so much time stringing her along, promising her they would be a family, but he hadn’t even had the guts to tell his father about the baby. And once his father found out that was the end.
It was a straight choice: Clara and Summer or his family fortune. Turned out it was no choice at all.
Even then he had lied, promised he’d find a way, that he loved her, loved Summer. Her heart twisted painfully. He had just wanted her to leave quietly, to not make a scene.
Clara’s eyes locked onto the photo that sat on her otherwise clutter-free desk and the anger left just as suddenly as it had arrived. Dark hair, dark eyes, just like her father. Clara’s feelings didn’t matter here; Byron’s behaviour didn’t either. Summer was the one who counted and this was the first communication she had had from her daughter’s father in years. He wanted to meet. Maybe he wanted to be involved.
Or maybe not. But she had to try. If only she didn’t have to do it all alone. Of course her parents would come with her if she asked, but she didn’t trust them not to threaten to castrate Byron with the butter knife—or actually do it. Not that he didn’t deserve it but it wasn’t quite the reconciliation she was hoping for.
Her parents were amazing. Supportive and loving and endlessly giving with their time. Clara couldn’t have managed without them. But every now and then she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be part of a couple, to have a co-parent. Someone who was there all the time to laugh with at the funny bits, to burst with pride at all the amazing things only a parent could truly understand. To help when things got a little bumpy.
It wasn’t that she minded being both mother and father to her daughter, she just wished for Summer’s sake that she didn’t have to be.
Clara scrolled back to the top of the email and reread it intently. If it were just going to be Byron, then meeting him alone would have been difficult, probably emotional, but eminently doable. His father’s presence changed everything. He was a hard, harsh man. Clara sagged. She tried so hard to be strong but she really didn’t want to do this alone.
‘Here, drink this.’ A coffee slid across the desk, rich and dark. ‘You look like you’ve had a shock.’
Clara reached out for the white mug, absurdly touched by the gesture. ‘Thanks,’ she said, blinking rapidly. No, don’t you dare cry, she told herself fiercely.
‘I make a good listener, you know.’ He was back leaning against her desk, cradling a mug of his own, concern in his eyes. ‘Besides, you know a lot of my family secrets.’
Clara opened her mouth, a polite rebuff on the tip of her tongue, but closed it as a thought hit her.
Maybe she didn’t have to be alone after all?
The memory of his earlier offer hung there tempting, intoxicating. He owed her a favour. Anything she wanted. What if she didn’t have to face Byron and his father alone?
‘I’ll do it.’ The words were sudden, abrupt, loud in the quiet office. ‘If you guarantee me double time in office hours, treble at evenings and weekends, the bonus at the end of the six weeks and...’ she swallowed but forced herself to look up, to meet his eyes ‘...and you will accompany me to one meeting. Agreed?’
It was Raff’s turn to pause, the blue eyes regarding her quizzically, probing beneath her armour. ‘Agreed,’ he said finally.
Clara exhaled the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. ‘It’s a deal.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday.’
His hand reached out to take hers, folding over it in a gesture that was far more like a caress than a handshake. ‘Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at noon.’
‘But...’ Clara tried to withdraw her hand but it was held fast in his cool grip ‘...I thought you needed a date to meet your grandfather on Sunday.’
He smiled, the devilry back in his eyes. ‘I do, but we need to get to know each other first. You and I are going on a date.’
IT WAS BECOMING an annoying habit, somehow agreeing to the outrageous when she meant to refuse.
She’d felt sorry for him, fool that she was. She’d been lured in by a weary expression, candour and charm. A moment of personal weakness.
And yet there was a certain excitement about getting dressed up, about going somewhere other than The Swan. About going out with an undeniably attractive man.
Even if it wasn’t a real date.
It was probably a good thing she had said yes. It was so long since she had been on any kind of date she was bound to be a little rusty, a little awkward. This was an opportunity to practise without any pesky expectations hanging over her.
And that was all this fizz in her veins was. It certainly had nothing to do with Raff Rafferty. It was about a pretty dress, a chance to wear her hair down, to put on a lipstick a little darker, a little redder than she wore for work. A chance for heels.
No, Clara decided, eying herself critically in the mirror, she didn’t look too shabby. The vintage-style green tea dress was flattering and demure teamed with black patent Mary Janes and her hair was behaving for once, falling in a soft wave onto her shoulders.
She glanced at her watch. Five minutes. She wanted to be downstairs, sitting at her desk, working when he arrived. She might be all dressed up but this was work. Letting him upstairs, into her private space, was a step far too far.
And there could be no blurred lines.
She took a long look around the small, cosy sitting room. It wasn’t the grandest of homes, the fanciest. But it was hers, hers and Summer’s. Her sanctuary.
She’d bought it, paid for it, chosen the wallpaper, decorated it. Okay, there was a patch where it wasn’t perfectly lined up but it was hers.
Raff would dominate the room, suck all the air out of the space.
Make it unsafe.
The urge to sink onto the overstuffed velvet sofa was almost overwhelming. To play hooky from work, from responsibilities, from this devil’s pact. She could curl up with a large bar of chocolate and a Cary Grant film, block out the world for a few blissful hours. She pulled her phone out of her bag—one call and this whole crazy arrangement would be over before it had even begun.
Just one click. So easy.
Her finger moved to the contact list icon and hovered there.
Brrriiiing! The doorbell’s loud chime echoed through the room, making her jump.
Panic caught in her throat, making breathing difficult for one long second. Clara put her hand to her stomach and took a deep breath, purposefully clearing her mind, filling her lungs, allowing herself a moment to calm.
This isn’t real, she told herself. This is work. This is my business. I’m happy to clean loos, I’ll stock shelves, I even pick up dog dirt. I should be looking forward to a few weeks of socialising instead. Any of my staff would kill to swap with me.
She could do this.
But a part of her would much rather be scrubbing a room out from top to bottom, picture