A Bossy Roommate (Next Door to a Billionaire #2)

10. Eden

10

EDEN

TWO DAYS LATER, THURSDAY

W e board his private jet to Phoenix at about a quarter past six. During the early flight hours, Carter perfects his notes and talks me through his plan of action.

There are two major accounts he’s been fixated on. The first is Granger Estates, a commercial construction firm he had previously brought onboard for Legacy. According to Gretchen, it’s one of the biggest clients Legacy has managed to land, all thanks to Carter’s efforts. The other even bigger one is Harbor View Developments, a massive real estate company Carter wants to get his hands on.

They’re the ones we’ll be meeting at eleven o’clock.

All day yesterday, Carter had involved me in preparing a presentation that’s supposed to knock them off their feet and bring us that much closer to landing the account. I’d helped perfect the slides all day, aside from my normal tasks like scheduling, project coordination, and customer service. In the three days I’ve been there, it almost feels as if I’ve learned more than I did in the last three years at my sister’s firm combined, and it’s super fun doing so, especially when it comes to client relations. Interpersonal skills are a strength of mine, and I enjoy refining them.

When Carter and I enter the imposing Harbor View building, I can’t help but feel nervous, even though, or maybe because, it’s more of an unofficial, intimate pre-meeting between the two CEOs and Carter. Apparently, we represent one of the three construction firms still in the running, and the personal visit is meant to give us a glimpse of their company and get a better feel for their vision before the main presentation at Legacy next week.

“The board thinks we have no chance,” Carter tells me, his voice low.

“Our board? Legacy’s board?”

He nods. “When I first reached out to Harbor View, I didn’t expect anything to come from it, given that they operate on the other side of the country. Turns out, they are looking to expand on the East Coast, and that’s what made the difference and helped us get a foot in. Lesson is, it never hurts to ask. They invited Huxley to today’s meeting too, but he declined.” Carter looks at me darkly, straightening his tie. “Now, let’s prove our board wrong.”

“Challenge accepted. We’ll turn those naysayers into yay-sayers, let’s do it!”

The potential clients, Joe Walsh and Adam Baker, greet us and lead us to a conference room where we settle in around a large black table. Both men are somewhere in their mid-fifties, dressed casually, and I assume it’s to underscore the informal meeting. After the initial note exchange, Adam receives an urgent call and excuses himself, leaving his partner Joe to handle the rest. The conversation shifts to our team’s approach to project management, and Joe asks some detailed questions. Carter answers all of them with ease, and I interject with additional information. We’re a great team, highlighting Legacy’s focus on communication, organization, and efficient problem-solving.

Joe seems increasingly impressed. “I can see why your company has such a strong reputation in the industry.”

“We’ve worked hard to earn that reputation,” Carter says. “It’s the result of our team’s dedication to consistently delivering top-notch solutions and building meaningful, lasting partnerships.”

From there, Carter dives into the plans he has for Harbor View, showing some of the glossy brochures we brought along. Watching him, I’m in awe at his “No BS” approach. His communication is clear and to the point. His vision is huge . Carter has a talent for presenting groundbreaking, sophisticated ideas in an exciting manner, and in the relatively short amount of time he’s had, he’s managed to not just whet Joe’s appetite for more but also leave him with his jaw hanging wide open.

As we say our goodbyes and walk out of the conference room, Carter turns to me. “Good job, Eden. You really held your own in there.”

“I think we’re in good shape for the main presentation.” I smile, proud of him, but also of myself for contributing to such a significant meeting.

“We just need to keep up the momentum and really wow them with our pitch next week.”

From there we fly to Las Vegas.

I’ve never been to Vegas before, and unfortunately, I don’t really get a chance to enjoy the flight, or to relax. Believe me, I wouldn’t be more nervous if it was a real wedding, not just us playing dress-up for a photoshoot in bride and groom attire. The distraction of work helps my jittery nerves. Carter is on the phone working pretty much the entire time. So am I. Either I’m taking calls on my work cell and forwarding the important ones to him, or busy with other admin tasks.

He’s left me to organize everything for the wedding, and as his assistant, I’m there to make sure everything runs smoothly.

When the flight attendant serves drinks and food, Carter has me fill out and sign the “wedding paperwork” that includes the notation about the incredible bonus I’ll be entitled to (and my account will be shocked to see deposited). His attorney overnighted the contract from the Easter Islands (Carter made him work during his vacation!), and he’ll stop by in person with the NDA later this week.

The successful meeting and the positive atmosphere between us makes it easier for me to actually go through with the scheme.

However, despite my attempts otherwise, the whole experience makes me think about Rob. He had done everything he could to avoid marrying me, and yet with Carter, it’s like he can’t tie the knot soon enough. A sham marriage, of course, but still. When I said I was ready to be married, this wasn’t exactly the unexpected turn I had in mind.

As soon as the jet lands, Carter whisks me away to a high-end jewelry store, foiling my plans of visiting a more affordable place. Seriously, I see a necklace that costs ten times more than my Kiki. We buy two wedding bands, which I can’t stop staring at because they symbolize the eternal bond we do not share. At first, I’d opted for a simple gold band, but he insisted on me getting a diamond ring. He picked out a dazzling sparkly diamond set band that could probably fund a small country. It wasn’t like I could refuse my boss’s demands—so I politely and humbly accepted. (As if! I jumped on that opportunity like a frog on a lily pad.)

I’m deeply touched by his generosity, even though it doesn’t change the fact that this marriage is a strict business arrangement. Just when I think I’ll end up blinded by all the diamond-sparkles reflecting back at me from my new ring, Carter decides that I need an engagement ring too, with a diamond bigger than the moon. I mean, at this point, let’s just say I don’t protest too much. But I tell him we needed to get me sunglasses to protect me from all the brightness.

Of course, I’ll return the rings to him once our fake marriage is over, but until his aunt flies back to France, I’ll wear them, feeling like a princess. For a whole weekend, I’ll relish the bliss of being the woman NYC’s most eligible bachelor had walked down the aisle and taken as his “forever” wife.

It takes several hours for the wedding clothes to be custom altered to fit perfectly. Carter wants to make sure that everything is authentic. (Sidenote: If this was an authentic wedding, we would have used the waiting period to visit the Clark County Marriage License Bureau, where an authentic couple would have filled out the necessary paperwork and obtained a marriage license, but since we don’t have to do that, we spend the time working.) Waiting for the custom alteration to arrive seems like an eternity. Boy, is it worth it though. Carter looks dashing in his tailor-made suit, and my wedding dress is a dream come true, fitting me so perfectly that I feel like a delicate flower snugly nestled in its petals. (It doesn’t even come close to the simple dress I’d worn not too long ago, which now in comparison, likely made me look like a wannabe bride in a glamorous white potato sack.)

The photoshoot itself takes place in a small chapel on the strip. Even though I know it’s all for the camera and Carter’s aunt, I’m a little disappointed that there’s not an Elvis impersonator to “fake” marry us. I’d done my best to get one, but Carter had said no when I’d told him my idea. I should have seen it coming that he wouldn’t go for “such nonsense”—which I find hilarious given how funny our entire situation is.

The funniest part, though, is our photo session. It’s a bit awkward at first, posing for romantic photos with my boss. Once or twice, the thought of Rob crosses my mind and I imagine how our photos would have turned out, but to my surprise, amid all his grumpy, bossy behavior, I find myself preferring to be Carter’s fake bride than Rob’s real one.

At one point, Carter accidentally steps on my dress and rips it. I burst out laughing, and the photographer captures the moment perfectly. Carter says he doesn’t see the humor in it—however, I do see his lips quirk a bit. And so will the camera.

That’s as close as I get to witnessing Carter smile.

I guess it’s the closest thing we have to a romantic moment too.

Normally, the kiss is the romantic moment. Not in our case.

When the man pretends to pronounce us husband and wife for the camera, Carter doesn’t kiss me on the lips. He doesn’t even give me a quick peck. He doesn’t kiss me at all. Not even on my cheek.

Jerk. He could have at least planted one on me.

I know this isn’t a real marriage, but still.

Kissing wouldn’t have been against my rule, but who knows, maybe Carter wants to be respectful and not breach our boss-assistant line. Maybe he’s worried that an intimate moment—like a kiss—would be too much. And he’s right. It would be. I don’t need the temptation after the heartbreak I went through.

Still, I can’t help but wonder how it would feel to be kissed by a man like Carter Bancroft.

At least once.

Come to think of it, seriously, does this man not know how to kiss? When we were together last Sunday, his mouth had been busy exploring all parts of my body, and I wasn’t about to complain. But in his rush to have me (because that’s what it was: an animalistic, unstoppable surge), he’d forgone kissing my mouth. To make things even more infuriating, he has the most gorgeous lips on the planet. I can’t stop staring at them when he’s not looking: they’re soft, inviting, kissable.

Somehow, it bugs me that I don’t know if he’s a good kisser or not. I’m in the dark about his hand-holding skills too. I mean, he doesn’t even hold my hand as we exit the chapel!

Double jerk.

I force myself to think of something else other than kissing or holding hands with my boss. My fake husband. My fake boss husband. Fake husband roommate. My bossy roommate.

Damn, no matter how many combinations I try, it feels weird.

I stare out the window at the dark night, my fingers idly playing with the two sparkling rings on my finger.

Well, I guess I still get to be a sort of wife after all.

Silver lining.

We’d both changed back into regular clothes before we’d boarded the plane.

Carter sits a few seats away, still on the phone with work. It gives me a glimpse into how demanding his job really is—being here right next to him instead of just sitting outside his office has opened my eyes to his efficiency and to why he wants certain things done the way he does. He’s under a tremendous amount of pressure. How does he even sleep at night? No wonder he hasn’t gotten married or doesn’t have a long-term girlfriend. He doesn’t seem like he has the time for either.

We’re about a half an hour shy of landing when he finally puts the phone away. He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

“Tired?” I ask.

“It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll say.” I keep twirling the rings around my finger. “You spent a lot of money on wedding bands that I’m only going to be wearing for two days. I would have been just as satisfied with costume jewelry or something.”

“For the last time. No wife of mine, fake or not, is wearing costume jewelry. Don’t worry about the price of the rings. Besides, you wanted me to be the doting husband who fawns over his wife, didn’t you?”

“I meant flowers and hand-holding,” and kissing , I think, but I don’t say that out loud. Mentioning hand-holding feels audacious enough, but he doesn’t react, so I add, “or showing me more of New York City, not blowing obscene amounts of dollars on rings that are just for show. But hey, it’s your money. You do you.”

Carter leans back in his chair, studying me for a moment. “Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask. A spur of excitement rushes through my veins, until I realize he’s just trying to use the time to collect data about me, so we don’t have too much to go through tomorrow night.

“The basics. Where you come from, your parents, you know, things like that. Things I would know if I was your husband.”

“My parents died when I was young. No grandma or grandpa. My sister, she’s many years older, made sure I was fine. She took over Dad’s company, a small home-based eco-friendly landscaping business. Also, it’s comforting to know that I’ll have a family and a job to return to in six months, when I leave New York again, just as I promised her. I owe her a lot, even though sometimes we don’t see eye to eye.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a long story.”

Carter glances at the watch on his wrist. “We still have time. What happened?”

I sigh heavily. “I’ll give you the short version of events. I fell in love. I asked the man to marry me. He said yes. He left me during the ceremony. My sister never liked him, and when I told her I needed a change, she accused me of running away from my problems.”

Carter studies me with his carefully controlled expression. It’s hard to know what’s going through his mind. When I finish talking, he makes a face. “What fucking lowlife asshole ditches their fiancée at the altar?”

“Rob. That’s his name. Robert Winthrope.”

“He has no right calling himself a man.”

“On that, we can both agree. Apparently, he never loved me. I’m sure he’s off sowing his wild oats and leaving a stream of brokenhearted women in his wake.”

Carter narrows his eyes. “That has to be the most downbeat thing I’ve heard from you in the few days we’ve known each other. You’ve got a knack for keeping things positive.”

“On the contrary, it’s actually a very positive thought.”

“How so?”

“He’s gone.” I try to laugh.

Carter nods, and there’s warmth in his sincere eyes. It almost makes me keel over. It’s a nice, genuine expression, and it makes his stunning face deadly captivating.

Then I remember that the topic we’re talking about is quite sad. But still. It feels good to get it off my chest and be joyful, if even for a moment. I don’t even want to think about the poor women who might fall for Rob in the future.

Our short conversation is over the moment my work phone rings again, and I answer it. Harbor View. Sure, it’s late, and I could have just let it go to voice mail, Carter wouldn’t have minded, but at this point—now that I’ve personally met them and know what’s at stake—I’m fully invested. After pleasant small talk with Joe and a nod from Carter indicating that he’ll take the call, I forward it to his phone.

Not long after, the plane finally lands in New York, and before I know it, we’re back at the apartment building. Today has been such an emotional roller coaster. I’m exhausted. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for as long as I can. I need to get some rest if I’m going to be useful at work tomorrow. The second we get off the elevator, Hattie’s door creaks open, and she nosily peeks out.

“Nothing to see here,” Carter says, unlocking our door and immediately stepping inside.

I ignore his rudeness and smile at Hattie. “It’s just us. Sorry if we disturbed you.”

“Oh, please don’t mind me, I’m just a bit nosy. So…what might you have in that box?”

I look down at the box I’m holding. Inside is the wedding topper of our cake. Well, it isn’t a cake-cake. With the short notice, I got a collection of cupcakes. (Okay, I would have gotten a cake, but I figured wedding cupcakes were way more fun and relatable after the “almost” fire incident, plus they won’t go to waste like a huge wedding cake would have.) The cupcakes are decorated with a luscious vanilla cream topping and a bright red, succulent, juicy strawberry on top. Carter said they were only needed for photos, but I insisted on bringing them home because who wastes cupcakes? Nuh-uh. Not this one.

“Cupcakes. They’re vegan and delicious. Here, have one.”

Trying to keep my distance and avoid the cat hair that is no doubt clinging to her clothes, I open the box toward her, and she gasps. Heavenly fruity smells surrounded us. At first, I think she is really into those strawberry cupcakes, that’s how big her eyes grow, but then her hand takes my left one, and she notices the rings.

“Goodness me, you certainly do work swiftly!”

Ah, shit. She doesn’t miss anything. What should I tell her? I can’t exactly tell her that we suddenly fell in love and got married. She’ll never believe it.

“It’s…complicated,” I say.

“Indeed, my dear, all relationships are.” She waves her hand. “This couldn’t possibly be connected to a certain relative of his who’s scheduled to visit, could it?”

How the heck does she know that?

Was she listening at the door? Or have I moved in next to a psychic?

At my alarmed expression, she laughs. “Don’t panic, love. Eleanor and I are friends. She kindly gave me a ring to let me know about her impending visit. I had a hunch it would set her nephew into a bit of a flurry.”

“So, you know about the marriage story?” I ask in a soft voice.

“As I understand it, she’s quite delighted he’s taken the plunge at last. But you know, I’ve also noticed that it’s been quite a while since I last saw him with a lady. It’s a sham marriage, am I right? Just for appearances? Please don’t worry, I shan’t unravel whatever plan he’s cooked up in that head of his. It just concerns me that he’s got you tangled up in it.”

“It’s all right,” I say with a shrug. “I can handle whatever Carter throws at me. It’s just for the weekend anyway.”

“Might you be in need of any friendly advice, my dear?” she asks, biting back a cheeky smile, mischief dancing in her eyes.

“About what?”

“The wedding night.”

I burst into laughter. “I think I’m all right on that front.”

“Are you quite certain? It’s just that I possess a multitude of tales on the topic. I myself entered the bonds of matrimony a total of six times, you know.”

Holy shit. My elderly cat lady neighbor has six successful stories on the subject! She’s not only the sweetest and funniest, but now officially the most unassuming old lady I’ve ever met.

“First, that’s unexpected.” I grin. “Second, I don’t think there’s going to be any real wedding night. This isn’t a real wedding.”

“My dear, if I were graced with a gentleman of such striking appearance, I wouldn’t squander a single evening, if you catch my drift—genuine or not. Particularly if he happened to be my superior.” She gives a playful wink. “Despite that ice-cool exterior, I reckon there’s a fervent volcano smoldering inside…”

“ Ah !” I playfully gasp. “Hattie, you minx!”

The old woman chuckles, grabs four cupcakes out of the box, and closes the lid. “En-jo-oyyyy,” she sings playfully, pushing the box back toward me with her elbow. “The hour grows late. Myrtle, Ruth, and Mitsy require their midnight treats, and so do I. You’d best return to that fiery husband of yours.”

I go back to Carter’s apartment, amused by our interaction. My fiery husband is in the kitchen, pouring a glass of whiskey.

“Hattie knows.”

“Well, of course she does,” he says, unsurprised. “Fortunately, you haven’t signed the NDA yet.”

“Uh-huh.” I know that he’s teasing of course (at least, that’s what I hope). He knows how observant Hattie is—but nonetheless, I feel guilty for not mentioning that Gretchen, too, has more info on us than she probably should have. At least Gretchen doesn’t know anything about the fake marriage, and I’ll make sure that she, like everyone else, never learns.

I set the remaining wedding cupcakes down on the counter, ready to get something else off my chest that Hattie just put into my head.

Something about the “wedding night.”

Something I noticed about Carter’s bedroom situation.

“Where does your aunt usually sleep when she visits you?” I ask him.

“Guest suite. You need to clear it until she leaves on Sunday afternoon.”

“Where am I going to sleep?” The reason I’m bringing up this question—again—is because when I’d walked by his bedroom to get to the gym this morning, the door had been standing open and there definitely weren’t two beds. What’s even worse, even though his bedroom is quite spacious, the modern architecture and setting of the balcony, fixed shelves, and furniture doesn’t even allow for a second bed.

“We’ve been over this. In my room, of course.” He turns to me, giving me a “duh” face. “It’s going to be our room for the weekend. We need to sell our marriage. I can’t sleep on the couch if that’s what you’re suggesting, and neither can you. We’re both sleeping in my room.”

“But there’s only one bed. You said there would be two. Right?”

“Right,” he says.

“So?”

“So what?”

“A second bed wouldn’t even fit into your bedroom…or would it?”