Ten
Prospect number seven was not going well.
Andrea Payne’s eyelids drooped as Dr. Christopher Miller yammered on. At this rate hell would freeze solid and Satan would win a gold medal in figure skating before she found an appropriate plus-one for her sister’s wedding.
Her sister Gwen was the second to last of the Payne women to marry, which left Andy dead last. Not that Andy had ever been anywhere near walking down a runner in a wedding gown, but this marriage would widen the gap already setting her apart from her married—and one soon-to-be married—sisters.
Years ago, when she’d moved to Seattle, Andy had set out to prove that she didn’t need a boyfriend; didn’t need anyone. She’d set out to prove that in business, in life, she could stand on her achievements and skills.
In her family, charm and poise were worth more than achievements, and for that she could blame her mother, former Miss Ohio Estelle Payne. Andy would settle for relationships with high-paying clients, thank you very much. There was a contract between them, after all. That was sort of like marriage.
She returned her attention to her date, boredom having set in a while ago. It was a shame he wasn’t going to work out. On paper, Christopher was everything she was looking for in a date for her sister’s wedding. He was a doctor, well-dressed, nice-looking and comfortable talking about himself.
Really comfortable.
“Anyway, I was able to help out a patient in his time of need, which is what this job is all about.” He arched his eyebrows and pressed his lips together, trying to appear humble. “He was lucky I was there.”
Womp.
She’d tried her ex-boyfriends first—a whopping total of three of them—over the last month and a half before resorting to a dating app that had resulted in three other duds and “lucky number seven,” Christopher here.
She gulped down the last of her chardonnay and flagged the waitress for a refill. Her date never broke stride.
“It wasn’t the first time I’ve been tasked with removing a mole, but it’s never an easy fight, and far more dangerous than anyone would imagine.”
She sucked in air through her nose and plastered on what she hoped was a genial smile while surreptitiously checking out her surroundings. She’d noticed a trio at the bar earlier, and her attention returned there again. A guy and a girl who hadn’t taken their eyes off each other and another guy who was there as a third wheel but didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. She’d assumed he was waiting for his date while he had drinks with the couple, but then Andy noticed him flirting with the bartender. Maybe she was his girlfriend, though nothing between them hinted that they knew each other on an intimate level.
People-watching was one of Andy’s favorite pastimes. She enjoyed making up stories about strangers, testing her observation skills. She only wished there was a way she could find out if she was right about her instincts.
The single guy—a gut call—at the bar was handsome in an earthy way, his light brown hair winding into curls here and there like it was in need of a trim, his shadowed beard a far cry from Christopher’s sharply shaven jawline. Where Christopher resembled a firm pillar in a Brooks Brothers suit, the guy at the bar was in an approachable button-down pale-blue-and-white checked shirt, his tie—if there’d ever been one—long since tossed, and the sleeves cuffed and pushed to his elbows. He was drinking a bottle of beer, an expensive IPA if she wasn’t mistaken, and that made her like him more.
“Andy?”
She jerked her attention to Christopher, who was a dark-haired, poor man’s version of Chris Hemsworth. Not bad for a girl who was desperately seeking a date, but something about the good doctor was bothering her. Particularly that he was full of crap. Brimming with it, in fact.
How would she tolerate the entirety of a four-day wedding with him?
“Lost you there.” He smirked and then continued the story of his latest medical triumph, talking down to her as if she still held her first job working part-time at a perfume counter. Not that he’d know what she did for a living. He never asked. If this bozo knew who he was trying to impress, he’d shut his mouth like a sprung bear trap.
She wondered what ole Christopher would say if he knew she was the Andy Payne, master of marketers. Sultan of sales. The oft-sought-after, rarely duplicated expert who was essentially a puff of smoke.
Everyone thought she was a man...on paper. She’d kept her identity a secret from everyone—including the many publications who’d interviewed her.
The New York Times.
Forbes.
Fortune.
That random mention in Entertainment Weekly.
Andy Payne was known for whipping companies into shape, and throughout her illustrious five-year career she’d managed to garner the attention of others with a clean black-and-white website and
