Chapter 2

　　Sophia

　　"So Your Solution Is The Tutor?"

　　I stood outside the massive, mahogany double doors of Mr Ashford's house, clutching a crate of strawberries against my hip, when I caught sight of my hands, I froze.

　　"Shit!"

　　The Lindsborg soil was still etched deep into my cuticles.

　　Mr Ashford viewed dirt as a personal assassination attempt.

　　If Mr Ashford saw even a speck of Kansas dirt under my nails, he'd probably call a hazmat team.

　　I fumbled with my purse, diving past my wallet and a stray gum wrapper until my fingers snagged my emergency nail clippers.

　　Clip. Snap. Jagged.

　　I worked with the speed of a professional assassin, murdering my fingernails, praying I wouldn't draw blood.

　　I didn't have time for a manicure nor the money. I just needed to look less like I'd been digging my own grave.

　　Shoving the clippers back into my bag, I noticed the foyer was silent and empty?

　　No girls leaving the house today?

　　Usually, there was some leggy blonde scurrying out with her heels in hand, doing the walk of shame.

　　Today… nothing.

　　Noah must be taking a nap by this time.

　　I followed the muffled discussion toward the study.

　　"...The doctor didn't stutter. This is a precarious situation, Andrew. A ticking clock, not a suggestion," a woman snapped.

　　I stopped in the doorway.

　　It was Sharon, Mr Asford's publicist.

　　I could see her through the gap—that unmistakable red hair.

　　And no, not ginger but scarlet red hair, pulled into a lethal updo, blue long-sleeved silk blouse and black pencil skirt.

　　Then I saw them: leopard-print red bottoms.

　　What is it with today?

　　I thought, my brain doing a weary somersault.

　　Is there an animal-print convention I missed?

　　First was Daphne's crocodile skirt, now this.

　　They're all out to make me have a mental breakdown, one predator-pattern at a time.

　　"I'm aware of my pulse, Sharon. I needed a solution, not a play-by-play," a deep, slow voice replied.

　　My stomach did that weird little flip it always did when Mr Ashford spoke.

　　His voice was deep—Professor Snape deep—low and rhythmic.

　　It was the kind of voice that made you want to lean in just to see if the air around him was vibrating.

　　"So your solution is the tutor?"

　　Sharon gestured toward the door, finally noticing me.

　　She raked her foxy eyes over my worn-out dungarees and plaid shirt like I was a virus that had bypassed the security system.

　　"You want the world to believe you've been dating the girl who delivers your groceries? Do you know how that sounds? Especially to your father?"

　　Wait. What?

　　"It sounds like a man who finally found something worth keeping," Mr Ashford countered.

　　What is actually going on here?

　　​He was leaning against his desk, six-foot-two of charcoal-gray eyes scanning me all over.

　　Oh shit.

　　He continued looking at me, his expression easy-going despite the apparent tension in the room.

　　"I have Noah's strawberries like you requested."

　　"Yes, he'll have them later, he's taking a nap." He replied.

　　I nodded in response.

　　"You're late, Sophia," he finally said.

　　I didn't smile.

　　I didn't have any smiles left after the day I'd had.

　　"The truck is dying, Mr Ashford. It's a miracle I made it here at all. You wanted to see me?" I asked, setting the crate of strawberries down.

　　"Yes. I did,"

　　"Andrew, please have a rethink," Sharon hissed, stepping in front of him. "She's a farm girl. She smells like… outdoors."

　　Excuse me?

　　"She's perfect. My family expects a shark. They won't know what to do with someone like Sophia."

　　"That's it?" she asked with her hand on her hip. "You want unpredictability?"

　　"Precisely,"

　　Sharon groaned in response.

　　"You said it yourself, it's a ticking clock. I need to look stable. I need to look like a man with a long-term plan, not a man with a—"

　　"Fine. I get it." Sharon exhaled, adjusting her cat-eye glasses.

　　I cleared my throat, the sound loud and dry in the posh room.

　　"I'm still here, you know. In case you forgot I have ears."

　　Mr Ashford's lips quirked into a tiny, dark smirk.

　　"My apologies, Sophia. Sharon was just expressing her usual lack of imagination."

　　Sharon turned to me with a look of pure pity as she stood beside Mr Ashford.

　　"Andrew here wants a fiancée. A fake fiancée. A one-year contract. And he wants you to play the part of the devoted lover so his family stops circling his life like buzzards."

　　Did I hear that correctly?

　　I looked at Mr Ashford.

　　"Why? You could easily have any woman in the state, or even the country. Why a fake one? And why me?"

　　"Personal reasons," he shrugged, and the weight behind those words told me not to ask again.

　　He stepped toward me, his shadow falling over my crate of strawberries.

　　"And maybe because I know you're about to lose your farm and your home. I know the bank is coming on Monday."

　　The mention of the bank hit me like a physical blow.

　　"How did you know about that?"

　　"You work for me, I have your file as well as the others. I always conduct a thorough background check on all my employees without fail." He explained.

　　"Oh… right,"

　　Sharon shook her head in that manner that says; what a dumbass.

　　Way to go, Sophia. Asking stupid questions.

　　"Here's the deal. One year, I pay off the farm. Every cent. And I give you one million dollars in cash for your time." He said smoothly.

　　Whoah…

　　A million dollars?!

　　Now, I'm drooling on the inside.

　　It was a fairytale.

　　No. This has to be a prank.

　　"Are you pranking me, Mr Ashford? If you are then stop it. It isn't funny."

　　"I detest pranks. Dirty little tricks aren't my thing."

　　He sounds serious.

　　My eyes caught the way Sharon was looking at me, like I was a bug under a microscope.

　　"So what do you say?" He asked, coming closer, his breath smelling like expensive mints.

　　I quickly thought of Daphne's infatuation with Mr Ashford.

　　In case you didn't understand the magnitude of what I said earlier.

　　It is more than a mere crush.

　　Daphne is obsessed with him, and always talking about him and looking for opportunities to meet him.

　　Daphne who had ruined me for a pair of boots.

　　Daphne.

　　If I did this I wouldn't just save the farm.

　　I'd probably be wearing a diamond ring.

　　She's obsessed with those too.

　　I'd be the one standing next to the man she'd spent her nights staring at his photos like he was a god.

　　The thought of her face when she found out was the best medicine my vertigo had ever had.

　　"You don't have to give me an answer right away. Take some time to think—"

　　"No need." I interrupted.

　　The image of Daphne's betrayal flashed in my mind—the way she saved her purse instead of me.

　　"I've already made my decision. I'll do it."

　　Mr Ashford's eyes flared with a dark, satisfied heat.

　　"Smart decision,"

　　I looked at him, and for the first time, I wasn't the help. I was the secret weapon.

　　And boy did that feel good.

　　"But on one condition, sir,"

　　"Name it."

　　"Can I get a huge fake diamond engagement ring?"