Falling For Her Fake Fiancé. Sarah M. Anderson
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she ever got to be with her father, just the two of them. For a few glorious hours every Friday morning, she was Daddy’s Little Girl. No older brothers taking up all his time. No new wives or babies demanding his attention. Just Hardwick Beaumont and his little girl, Frannie.
And what was more, she got to visit all the grown-ups—including many of the same employees who were watching this exchange between her and Logan with rapt fascination—and hear how nice she was, how pretty she looked in that dress, what a sweetheart she was. The people who’d been working for the Brewery for the past thirty years had made her feel special and loved. They’d been her second family. Even after Hardwick had died and regular Donut Fridays had faded away, she’d still taken the time to stop in at least once a month. Donuts—hand-delivered with a smile and a compliment—made the world a better place.
If she could repay her family’s loyal employees by humiliating a tyrant of an outsider, then that was the very least she could do.
Logan’s mouth opened and closed before he ordered, “Get back to work.”
No one moved.
She turned back to the crowd to hide her victorious smile. They weren’t listening to him. They were waiting on her.
“Well,” she said graciously, unable to keep the wicked glint out of her eye. Just so long as Logan didn’t see it. “It has been simply wonderful to see everyone again. I know I’ve missed you—we all have in the Beaumont family. I do hope that I can come back for another Donut Friday again soon?”
Behind her, Logan made a choking noise.
But in front of her, the employees nodded and grinned. A few of them winked in silent support.
“Have a wonderful day, everyone,” she cooed as she waved.
The crowd began to break up. A few people dared to brave what was no doubt Logan’s murderous glare to come close enough to murmur their thanks or ask that she pass along their greetings to Chadwick or Matthew. She smiled and beamed and patted shoulders and promised that she’d tell her brothers exactly what everyone had said, word for word.
The whole time she felt Logan’s rage rolling off him in waves, buffeting against her back. He was no doubt trying to kill her with looks alone. It wouldn’t work. She had the upper hand here, and they both knew it.
Finally, there was only one employee left. “Delores,” Frances said in her nicest voice, “if Mr. Logan doesn’t want his donut—” She pivoted and held the box out to him again.
Oh, yes—she had the advantage here. He could go right on trying to glare her to death, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the entire administrative staff of the Brewery had ignored his direct order and listened to hers. That feeling of power—of importance—coursed through her body. God, it felt good.
“I do not,” he snarled.
“Would you be a dear and take care of this for me?” Frances finished, handing the box to Delores.
“Of course, Ms. Frances.” Delores gave Frances a look that was at least as good as—if not better than—an actual hug, then shuffled off in the direction of the break room, leaving Frances alone with one deeply pissed-off CEO. She crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned toward him, but she didn’t say anything else. The ball was firmly in his court now. The only question was did he know how to play the game?
The moment stretched. Frances took advantage of the silence to appraise her prey. This Logan fellow was quite an attractive specimen. He was maybe only a few inches taller than Frances, but he had the kind of rock-solid build that suggested he’d once been a defensive linebacker—and an effective one at that. His suit—a very good suit, with conservative lines—had been tailored to accommodate his wide shoulders. Given the girth of his neck, she’d put money on his shirts being made-to-order. Bespoke shirts and suits were not cheap.
He had a square jaw—all the squarer right now, given how he was grinding his teeth—and light brown hair that was close cut. He was probably incredibly good-looking when he wasn’t scowling.
He was attempting to regain his composure, she realized. Couldn’t have that.
Back when she’d been a little girl, she’d sat on this very desk, kicking her little legs as she held the donut box for everyone. Back then, it’d been cute to hop down off the desk when all the donuts were gone and twirl in her pretty dress.
But what was cute at five didn’t cut it at thirty. No hopping. Still, she had to get off this desk.
So she extended her left leg—which conveniently was the side where one of the few designer dresses she’d hung on to was slit up to her thigh—and slowly shifted her weight onto it.
Logan’s gaze cut to her bare leg as the fabric fell away.
She leaned forward as she brought her other foot down. The slit in the dress closed back over her leg, but Logan’s eyes went right where she expected them to—her generous cleavage.
In no great hurry, she stood, her shoulders back and her chin up. “Shall we?” she asked in a regal tone. “My cloak,” she added, motioning with her chin toward where she’d removed the matching cape that went with this dress.
Without waiting for an answer from him, she strode into his office as if she owned it. Which she once had, sort of.
The room looked exactly as she remembered it. Frances sighed in relief—it was all still here. She used to color on the wagon wheel table while she waited for the rest of the workers to get in so she could hand out the donuts. She’d played dolls on the big conference table. And her father’s desk...
The only time her daddy hugged her was in this room. Hardwick Beaumont had not been a hard-driven, ruthless executive in those small moments with her. He’d told her things he’d never told anyone else, like how his father, Frances’s grandfather John, had let Hardwick pick out the color of the drapes and the rug. How John had let Hardwick try a new beer fresh off the line, and then made him tell the older man why it was good and what the brewers should do better.
“This office,” her daddy used to say, “made me who I am.” And then he’d give her a brief, rare hug and say, “And it’ll make you who you are, too, my girl.”
Ridiculous how the thought of a simple hug from her father could make her all misty-eyed.
She couldn’t bear the thought of all this history—all her memories—being sold off to the highest bidder. Even if that would result in a tidy commission for her.
If she couldn’t stop the sale, the best she could do was convince Chadwick to buy as much of his old office as possible. Her brother had fought to keep this company in the family. He’d understand that some things just couldn’t be sold away.
But that wasn’t plan A.
She tucked her tenderness away. In matters such as this one, tenderness was a liability, and God knew she couldn’t afford any more of those.
So she stopped in the middle of the office and waited for Logan to catch up. She did not fold herself gracefully into one of the guest chairs in front of the desk, nor did she arrange herself seductively on the available love seat. She didn’t even think of sprawling herself out on the conference table.
She stood in the middle of the room as though she was ruler of all she saw. And no one—not even a temporary CEO built like a linebacker—could convince her otherwise.
She was surprised when he did not slam the door shut. Instead, she heard the gentle whisper of it clicking closed. Head up, shoulders back, she reminded herself as she stood, waiting for him to make the next move. She would show him no mercy. She expected nothing but the same returned in kind.
She saw him move toward the conference table, where he draped her cape over the nearest chair. She felt his eyes on her. No doubt he was admiring her body even as he debated wringing her neck.
Men were so easy to confuse.
He