Aigbojie Jennifer
Twenty-two-year-old Rita Hunters has finally hit rock bottom. Separated from her best friend, her parents in the middle of a messy divorce, and student loans piled way up to the ceiling, her once organized, serene life is burning to the ground right before her very eyes.
But life isn’t done fucking her up just yet. When she walks into her hot, gangster boss, Scar Scarfoni discussing some very illegal plans with his cohorts, she almost loses her life. But thank heavens that Scar is considerate and makes her an unusual offer so she can stay alive.
Rita would be his bride. A fake bride.
But Rita knows the kind of man Scar is; cold, ruthless and borderline psychopathic. Add to that his wickedly charming eyes, and Rita wants nothing but to bolt for the door.
There are no alternatives, unfortunately, so Rita agrees.
Scar is a neat, treats her like an actual bride, and teases her endlessly. Rita hates his jokes, his guts, the entire arrangement.
Well, until she doesn’t. Not all fake marriages last forever. And by the time the arrangement is over, she discovers that she can’t imagine how life once was without him.
Will they ever get a happy ending?
—————
Rita
If I weren’t desperate to keep my job, there’s no way I’d power walk through Boston’s Logan International Airport in a pair of heels with a carry-on and a wobbly suitcase, chasing after a man I’m pretty sure would leave me behind instead of being even ten seconds late. I’m a sweaty mess and seriously starting to rethink this whole situation. Unemployment sounds great right about now, except starvation wouldn’t be fun, and I like paying rent. Which means I put my head down and barrel forward.
Meanwhile, my boss, Scar Scarfoni, powers through the crowds in a perfect navy-blue suit like he’s floating on air. Someone’s grandmother elbows me in the chest and throws me a dirty glare as I breeze past her. Sorry, Nana, got to keep up with the worst boss I’ve ever had.
Somehow, Scar makes even shoving his way through crowds seem effortless.
“Student loans,” I say quietly to myself through gritted teeth. “Swinger parents. Absent best friend. Broken car. Rent. Netflix. Wine.” I go through the litany of why I need this job more than anything in the world, trying to remind myself that it’s worth sweating into my cheap polyester business-formal attire.
The recruiter tried to warn me. She said Scar Scarfoni paid extremely well, but he had a reputation. I figured that reputation was overblown.
I was very wrong.
“Rita,” Scar says sharply as he reaches the doors leading out toward the street. “Keep up, please. The driver’s waiting.”
“Yes, Mr. Scarfoni.” I flash my best smile at him, even though I’m exhausted from the flight. All I want to do is change my shoes, crawl into bed, and sleep for twenty hours straight.
Instead, I toss my luggage into the trunk before climbing into the town car beside Scar.
“Notes,” he says, staring out the window. The car pulls out, the driver easing into traffic.
I open my bag and dig around for my notebook. “Sorry, Mr. Scarfoni, it’s in here-”
“Seatbelt,” he says.
“Just a second, I almost have the notebook-” I find it under my laptop. “Here it is, and now-”
“Seatbelt,” he says more forcefully, but before I can respond, he leans over, grabs the belt, and yanks it down over my chest.
I stare at him in shock, unable to move. I smell his musky, spicy cologne and feel the brush of his hand against my chest. A spike of excitement runs down my spine straight into my core, sending shivering tingles to my fingertips.
He clicks the seatbelt roughly into place, his face inches from my own.
For a second, our eyes meet, his green-and-gold bearing down into my blue.
Scar Scarfoni is sinfully attractive. Bone structure that should be illegal. Beard always in the perfectly scrubby range like he trims it every ten minutes or something. His clothes fit his athletic body like a glove, showing off broad shoulders and tense, vein-riddled forearms. Big, strong hands. Sandy brown hair cut short and pushed back, so casual it’s clearly manicured. Lightly tanned skin like he spends an hour working out in the sun every day. The man’s a specimen.
Like seriously, he’s uterus-convulsing hot.
Except he’s also ten years too old, a total controlling asshole, a workaholic par excellence, and overall the opposite of what I want in a man.
But hey, nice to look at.
And apparently, I don’t mind if he does a little casual manhandling. Which I’m sure is against HR policy. If there was an HR.
I’m his legal assistant, which means a glorified secretary. What am I going to do, complain to myself? It’s just me and Scar.
Not that I mind, fortunately for him.
“Next time, put it on immediately,” he says, shifting back to his side. He looks out the window again like he didn’t just nearly feel me up. Some stupid, dizzy part of my brain wishes he’d come back over here. “Ready to take notes?”
“Ready,” I say, forcing myself back into the moment. I flip to a blank page and click open my pen.
This is a big part of my job. He’s constantly rehearsing closing arguments for clients he doesn’t work for and crimes that didn’t happen. Hotel magnates, shipping companies, heiresses, murderers, famous people and not-so-famous people, he’s always making legal arguments for why they’re innocent of whatever murder/theft/embezzlement/whatever he came up with recently. My job is to write down the big ideas, the prescient lines-he usually points them out-while he drones on and on.
At first, it was impressive. He’s an incredibly smart man. I can see how this constant working and thinking helps him craft his legal theories. It’s like playing chess against himself, except occasionally these mock-arguments come in handy. I’ve noticed him cribbing language from some to use in actual cases, and more than once he’s had breakthroughs while talking to himself as I scribble away.
Today, the case involves a tech CEO and a strangled prostitute. What’s Mr. Grumpy-Asshole got on his mind? Thinking about sex after brushing against my chest? Flattering.
I watch his mouth as he speaks. Good lips. Solid teeth. Straight and white. Perfect, everything in place. That’s Scar, never a stray hair, never a blemish. The man wakes up in the morning, takes a deep breath, and the world bends to his image of it.
Then he drags me along, kicking and screaming, expecting me to live up to exacting standards.
That recruiter tried to warn me. I should’ve listened.
Three months now. I’ve been with him for three months, but I’m barely keeping up. If he weren’t paying me absurdly well-seriously, like double the normal going rate for a basic legal assistant-I would’ve quit already.
Unfortunately, I need the stupid money, what with the staggering mountain of student loan debt, the general lack of supportive or even emotionally available parents, and a best friend that moved off to the middle-of-nowhere Kentucky to start a farm with her good-looking husband and her adorable little baby (number two on the way).
Basically, I’ve got nothing going for me, which is why I can chase after Scar Scarfoni and take notes while he talks.
“When we reach the bar, I need you to do something simple for me,” he says, shifting from mock-argument to business talk so seamlessly I almost think this is still part of the speech.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Scarfoni. Bar?” I blink rapidly. “I thought we were going to a meeting with prospective clients.”
He scowls at me. “Like I was saying, when we get to the bar-” Remind me never to interrupt Mr. Controlling-Asshole ever again- “I need you to follow some simple instructions. Are you ready?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Scarfoni.”
“I need you to find a seat out of the way. A corner, a booth, a stool in a corner, I don’t care. Somewhere quiet where you won’t be noticed.”
“I can do that,” I say, nodding as I write: Find a corner and get wasted.
He continues: “You will not drink alcohol.” I scratch out the get wasted part. “But you can order food.” I write in its placeorder wings. “You will remain in your position for as long as I’m in the meeting. You will not interrupt. You will not speak to me if I happen to walk past you unless I approach you first. Under no circumstances will you make yourself known until we’re finished. Do you understand?”
“Not seen nor heard, understood.”You’re a literal doormat, I write, smiling at him the whole time.
He stares at me, frowning. “I need to reiterate here, Rita. No matter what, don’t come find me. Don’t come talk to me. These new clients are notoriously private.”
“Can I ask who you’re meeting with, Mr. Scarfoni?”
“No,” he says crisply. “All you need to do is be present in case you’re needed.”
“Understood. I’ll be invisible otherwise.”
His eyes narrow, not sure if I’m joking. I give him another sweet smile.
“Do your best not to get into trouble.” He turns away, looking out the window again as we drift deeper into Boston.
“Me? Trouble?” I smile to myself as I put away the notebook. “I’d never dream of it, Mr. Scarfoni.”