Flash Marriage To My Secret Billionaire

The screen of Finley Bailey's phone was a tiny, vicious rectangle of light in the dim corner of The Gilded Spoon. The words from her stepfather, Dozier, felt like a tightening in her throat.

Tonight. You give Shane an answer tonight.

The condensation on her glass of ice water slicked her fingers. She set it down, leaving a perfect, wet ring on the dark wood of the table. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. This was it. The end of the line.

"He'll be here any moment, Finley."

Margo Finch, the manager from the matchmaking agency, slid into the chair opposite her. Her voice was a low, conspiratorial whisper. She smelled of expensive perfume and quiet desperation-not her own, but the collected desperation of her clients.

"Remember what we discussed," Margo continued, her eyes darting toward the door. "He's just like you. He's looking for a partner. A respectable, no-fuss arrangement."

Finley nodded, unable to form words. A respectable, no-fuss arrangement. A legal document that would act as a shield. A man who would give her his last name in exchange for... what? Margo had been vague. He wanted a wife for social reasons, someone to fill a space. He didn't want love. He didn't want complications.

He didn't want a wife. He wanted a ghost. Finley could be a ghost.

Then the bell above the café door chimed, and he walked in.

He was nothing like the grainy photo in the file Margo had shown her. The photo had shown a man. This was a man carved from something finer. He was tall, with dark hair cut in a way that looked effortlessly perfect. He wore a simple navy blazer and gray trousers that fit him in a way that suggested they were made for him, not bought off a rack.

This was not a man whose salary was under a hundred thousand dollars a year. The thought was immediate, and it sent a new spike of panic through her. A man like this wouldn't need a deal. He could have anyone.

He scanned the room, his eyes calm and intelligent. They met Finley's for a fraction of a second before Margo gave a discreet wave. He moved toward their table, his walk smooth and confident.

Margo stood. "Gary, this is Finley Bailey. Finley, this is Gary."

He offered a polite, closed-lip smile and held out a hand. "Garrison Strickland. But please, call me Gary."

His hand was warm and firm around her cold one. Finley's breath hitched. Garrison Strickland. Not Gary. The name sounded like old money and private clubs.

"Finley," she managed to say, her voice a reedy whisper.

He sat down as Margo scurried away, leaving them in a bubble of charged silence. He didn't look at the menu. His gaze rested on Finley, direct and unnervingly perceptive.

"Margo said we're both looking to solve a problem quickly," he said. His voice was a low baritone, calm and steady.