The coffee shop was one of those pretentious places in SoHo where the menu was a chalkboard and the baristas wore suspenders.
Aisha stood outside, adjusting the oversized sunglasses she had bought from a street vendor. She had changed into jeans and a sweater she kept in her gym locker, looking slightly less like a runaway debutante.
She spotted him through the glass.
Dominic was sitting at a corner table. He was wearing a t-shirt that was tight in all the right places and a leather jacket that looked distressed enough to be either very old or very expensive.
Across from him sat an older woman. She had silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and was wearing a Chanel suit.
Aisha ducked behind a newspaper stand.
The woman reached across the table and patted Dominic's hand. It looked... affectionate? No, patronizing.
She slid a thick manila envelope across the table.
Dominic took it. He didn't look inside. He just gave the woman a charming, practiced smile. The kind of smile that made women open their checkbooks.
He's working, Aisha thought, a wave of disgust warring with relief. That's his sugar mama.
The woman stood up, smoothed her skirt, and left.
Dominic stayed. He slumped back in his chair, staring out the window, looking strangely tired.
Aisha took a deep breath. She pushed open the door. The bell chimed.
She marched straight to his table and sat down in the empty chair.
Dominic blinked, pulling his gaze away from the street. Recognition dawned in his gray eyes.
"The runaway," he said. "Come back for your three hundred bucks?"
"I have a proposition," Aisha said. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.
A waiter appeared. "Can I get you something?"
"Two large coffees. Black. And the check," Aisha said.
She turned back to Dominic. She took off her sunglasses.
"I saw that woman," she said softly. "I know what that envelope was."
Dominic's expression shifted. The boredom vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. "Do you?"
"It's payday," Aisha said. "She's your client."
Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"You think I'm a gigolo," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I don't judge," Aisha lied. "But I need your services."
Dominic laughed. It was a rich, genuine sound that made heads turn. "Honey, I don't think you can afford my rates."
Aisha reached into her bag and pulled out a napkin. She grabbed a pen and wrote a number on it.
$50,000.
She slid it across the table.
"That's a down payment," she said. "I need you for a month. Maybe two."
Dominic looked at the number. He looked at her.
"What exactly does fifty grand buy me?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
Aisha felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she held his gaze. "A husband. A legal, paper-signed husband."
Dominic choked on his water. He coughed, thumping his chest. "Excuse me?"
"I need to get married. Today. It's... a legal matter regarding a trust fund. I need someone who looks good in a suit, can memorize a backstory, and won't ask questions."
She leaned in closer. "I know you need money. I saw you take that cash this morning. I can give you a monthly stipend. Five thousand a month, plus expenses. You get to live in my apartment. You get access to a car."
Dominic studied her. He looked at the napkin, then at her desperate, determined eyes.
He was Dominic Fields. He made fifty thousand dollars every time the stock market ticked up a point. He didn't need her money.
But he was bored. He was tired of the board meetings, the fake smiles, the endless pursuit of more power. And this woman... this woman who thought he was a prostitute... she was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in years.
"I have debts," he lied smoothly. "Big ones. Sharks looking for me."
Aisha didn't blink. "I'll handle them. Once I get my trust fund unlocked, I can pay them off. Within reason."
"Within reason," he repeated, hiding a smile.
"Do we have a deal?" She extended her hand across the table. Her fingers were trembling slightly.
Dominic looked at her small hand. He looked at the fire in her eyes.
He reached out and engulfed her hand in his. His palm was warm, rougher than she expected.
"Deal," he said. "Mrs. Bartlett."
