10

Maximilian
Ithink Cadence Quiler just propositioned me and I’m pretty sure I turned her down.
I may be a good soccer player, but I’m amazing at kicking myself for letting that one slide by. What are you thinking, Maxie? You grab whatever she’s offering and you go for it.
If Cadence hadn’t been on the verge of tears, then maybe. But still, she can do something for me. “There’s this wedding,” I begin. “My buddy, Marco.”
Cadence narrows her eyes. “The one you were doing all the celebrating with.”
“He is so in love with Callie,” I tell her. “It’s so great to see, but also so annoying because now he thinks everyone should be in love as much as he is. He spent all night pushing women at me, trying to help me find my perfect match like he has.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” The more I talk, the more she relaxes. At least, now she looks slightly more comfortable in her chair. I know dancers have excellent posture, but the way Cadence was perched on her chair was insane.
“Not normally, no, but he kind of made me look desperate, and that’s not a good look for me. I can do that well enough on my own.”
A smile. Nice.
I keep going before I lose my nerve. “And that was only one night. I’ve got to go through an entire weekend of wedding and he’s going to be pushing every single woman in the place at me, trying to pair me up. And if he gets Callie involved…” I shiver. “So you could really do me a solid and go with me.”
She pauses like she’s waiting for the punchline. “To a wedding.”
I am not joking. “Yes. I’ll pay for—” I stop because Cadence’s face… She looks like I reached out and slapped her. “Airfare is covered,” I say quickly. “All accommodations. Food. It’ll be like an all-inclusive resort. I’ll even buy you a dress.”
“I don’t need a dress.”
“No strings,” I add. “And no—” —my face heats from what I must have acted like last night— “no drunken me wanting to have pancakes. If you want to have pancakes, that’ll be great. Amazing. But only if you want… pancakes. That’s up to you. No pancakes are expected or obligated. If that helps you make your decision.”
She frowns. “It doesn’t seem like I have a choice, does it?”
“Well, if you want to look at it like that, then no. We’re both business people—let’s look at the give and take. I can keep the police and the press off your back by acting like the besotted boyfriend.”
“Besotted boyfriend?”
I shrug and flash a grin. “Won’t be hard. All I’m asking from you is seventy-two hours of your company. Maybe eighty, factoring in travel-back time. Which I will arrange.”
“Eighty hours. That seems like a lot.”
“Travel, pre-wedding activities, wedding. Then you’re off the hook. Seventy-two if you want to take off straight from the wedding and find your own way back.”
“And this is for Marco’s wedding.”

“You know him, so it’ll be cool.”
“I know his partner, Coulter,” Cadence admits. “Through their club.”
“Fantasies.” I nod and keep nodding. “I’ve never actually been there.” Marco and Coulter opened a club last year—two clubs in one, actually: a nightclub catering to the club bunnies and guys trying to pick them up through dodgy dance moves, and a club that caters to the more adventurous.
They call it a swinger club. I’ve never questioned Marco about his lifestyle or who or what he gets into because it’s none of my business. And now that he’s getting married, it’s Callie’s business.

As for me, I would probably stick to the nightclub part because I’ve never been much for sharing.
“But you know of Marco,” I say with an eagerness that I’m sure will look embarrassing when I look back on it. “So there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go with me. You’ll love Callie. everyone does.”
“You can’t bring a guest at the last minute,” she protests.
“You kind of can to this one,” I hedge. “See, it’s a destination wedding—”
That’s not a good expression. “Where is the wedding?” Cadence demands.
“Turks and Caicos,” I admit. “So. You busy this weekend?”
She is a closed book, her expression giving nothing away. She might be inwardly laughing hysterically, or giving a big Hell no, or wonder of wonders, might actually be considering it.
I cross my fingers under the table. Not only would she seriously be doing me a solid coming with me as a buffer between me and whoever Marco can throw at me, but also because she’s a beautiful woman and if I said I wasn’t attracted, I’d be lying.
I’m attracted. I’m interested. Intrigued.
Fascinated.
Outwardly, this woman has everything—smarts and savvy and looks amazing, but there’s a vulnerability that popped out with the police.
Normally I don’t go for vulnerable, because those are the ones who can turn needy at the drop of a hat. But Cadence…
The expression on her face is what I would imagine Cadence looks like when she’s examining a million-dollar deal, looking for a way to get out. “I assume you know my history,” she says in that cool voice that could freeze the balls off a snowman.
“History.” What does one say when confronted about the fact that Cadence was both a stripper and an escort? Not only an escort, but kind of like a madam of an online brothel?
I wonder if Cadence considers herself as any of those things, or if she’s pushed them aside into the box of history to focus on running her million-dollar empire.
Billion. Marco said she’s worth a billion.
But she has freckles.
Freckles. On her nose.
All of which should intimidate me, or at least impress me, but I find myself wondering if the freckles on her nose are the only ones she’s got.
Redheads usually equal freckles.
I wonder if this way of thinking is why my father is constantly pissed off at me.
Speaking of pissing off my father… “If we’re talking history, does that mean you need to know mine? I lost my V-card when I was—”
She sniffs. “I don’t need to know any of that.”
“And neither do I. Unless you want this to be a business transaction. I guess that would be fine, but I’d rather not, if I’m being honest.”
“I prefer honesty.”
“As do I. And I’d appreciate it if you agree to do me this favour as… a friend… rather than a business associate.”

She hums, her gaze locked on me as she pulls out her phone. Is she calling for help, like one of those first-date pacts women have? Is she calling the police on me for harassment?
Doubtful, considering the idiots that were just here.
Is she—?
She flips her phone over and takes a sip of her tea. “Sold.”