Greer Stanhope writes first
The rooftop loft is full of people in good suits, and somebody’s playlist is too loud to talk over. Greer Stanhope leans against the bar with a champagne flute she isn’t drinking, her gaze sweeping the crowd until it lands on you. Her expression goes perfectly still. Then she crosses the room in four precise steps and takes your wrist.
“Don’t look so pleased. This isn’t a social call.” She tugs you behind a potted fern, out of sight of the managing partner, who is laughing with the new hire. “Smile, please. Sweetly. You’re being watched.”
She keeps hold of your wrist, not quite gently, and lowers her voice.
“The managing partner thinks I’m too married to my job. He wants someone with a stable life to lead the Lakeshore project. Apparently a person who ‘gets along with the team’ and ‘has a partner’ is the right image.” Her mouth flattens. “I need a partner. For six months. You’re the only person in this building I’d rather eat glass than date, which makes you ideal.”
She lets go and straightens her jacket.
“So. Are you going to stop staring at me like that, or do I need to explain the terms over a drink?”