Chapter 6 Six

Chapter 6 Six
Was I crazy, or had the words "be my whore" just come out of Pearson's mouth?

"I beg your pardon?" I said incredulously, hoping that he would maybe take back his words.

Instead of doing that, Pearson leaned towards me with a straight face. "I said, be my whore, Isabella Long. It is obvious that it has never been an issue for you."

I kept his gaze for a few minutes, before looking towards the window. The implications in his words were obvious: this man thought I was a prostitute. I had no idea where he had gotten the idea from, and quite frankly, I wasn't sure I wanted to know. No wonder he had been letting out those crazy innuendos, and it now made sense why he hated me so much.

After taking a deep breath to calm myself down, I turned back towards Pearson who was still staring at me. "Mr. Pearson, I am not sure how and when you got the impression that I would welcome your 'proposition' with open arms. However, I am not sorry to disappoint. I am not interested. There is no amount of money that you would offer me that would make me want to get into bed with you."

"Is this how you usually do it? Play hard to get to gauge the extent to which you can up your price?"

He leaned back in his chair, forming a countenance of nonchalance that suited him perfectly. My palm was itchy to slap him, but I refrained. Instead, I pushed my chair back and stood, unwilling to hear whatever else the 'gentleman' had to say. Pearson followed suit and turned around the chair, then came towards me with one brow raised, as if he still expected an answer to his silly question.

I smiled cattily. "Don't hold your breath for a response to that."

"Why not, Isabella? Humor me. Is that how you played it with my dad? Play coy until he signed the restaurant over to you?"

In a fit of rage, I made to slap his handsome face. But he was too quick and held me by the wrist. My chest was heaving up and down, and I could feel the tendrils of hair that had escaped my loose ponytail caressing my face. For a split second, as we stared at each other, it seemed like he would kiss me. I could feel his warm breath on my lips and they parted unconsciously.

Instead of locking his lips with mine, however, he let go of my hand and stepped back. Without uttering another word, Pearson left the meeting room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I had been holding my breath unconsciously, so I took a huge gulp and clung to the edge of the table for support, as many emotions swirled through my body.

Confusion, anger, indignation.

But the most dominant was shame. Shame in realizing that I would have kissed him back if he had initiated it.



The next day, I woke up to an email that left me puzzled. Alexander Pearson was requesting my presence at the restaurant the following morning. The email was terse, professional, and devoid of any warmth. It read more like a summons than an invitation, which shouldn't have surprised me given our last encounter.

I read it three times, searching for any hidden meaning or trap. There was none. Just a time—9 am—and an address in East Queen Anne. The Seven restaurant. The place that had inadvertently become the source of all my current turmoil. After yesterday's disastrous meeting, I had half-expected Pearson to find some loophole in the will, some way to circumvent his father's wishes and cut me out entirely. Instead, here was this email, cold and businesslike, as if he hadn't propositioned me in the most insulting way possible just twenty-four hours ago.

I should have declined. I should have forwarded the email to Edna and asked her to mediate. I should have done many things. Instead, I typed out a brief confirmation and hit send before I could second-guess myself.

The truth was, I needed this opportunity. Brodie's situation hung over me like a dark cloud, and unless I won the lottery or robbed a bank, this inheritance was my only viable option for getting him out of trouble. Which meant I had to make this work with Pearson, no matter how insufferable he was.

Sleep didn't come easily that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Pearson's face inches from mine, felt his warm breath on my lips, remembered the way my body had betrayed me by wanting him despite everything. It was maddening, confusing, and utterly inconvenient.

By the time morning came, I had replayed our encounter so many times that I'd convinced myself I'd imagined the heat between us. Pearson hated me. He thought I was a gold-digger, a manipulator, someone who had somehow seduced his dying father into signing over a family asset. The fact that none of it was true didn't seem to matter.

I dressed carefully that morning, opting for black slacks and a crisp white blouse. I wanted to be professional without trying too hard. I twisted my hair into a neat bun and applied minimal makeup. If Pearson wanted to treat this as a business arrangement, then I would too. The ride to East Queen Anne took longer than expected due to morning traffic, and I arrived at The Seven with only minutes to spare. The restaurant was more beautiful than I had imagined. It sat right on the waterfront, all glass and warm wood, with a view that took my breath away. Even from outside, I could see the water sparkling in the morning sun.

For a moment, I forgot about Pearson and the complications. I forgot about Brodie, the debt and my failed business. I just stood there, staring at this place that apparently now belonged to me—or half belonged to me—and felt something stir in my chest. Hope, maybe. Or possibility.

The feeling lasted approximately thirty seconds.

"You're late."

Pearson's voice came from behind me, and I spun around to find him standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking every bit as imposing as he had in his office. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that did absolutely nothing to diminish his attractiveness. If anything, the casual attire made him look more dangerous, more real.

I glanced at my phone. "I'm two minutes early, actually."

"And I've been here since seven. That makes you late." He turned and walked inside without waiting for a response.

I took a deep breath, counted to five, and followed him. The interior of the restaurant was even more stunning than the exterior. Exposed wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and the entire back wall was made of glass, offering an unobstructed view of the water. Tables were arranged to maximize the view, and there was an intimacy to the space despite its size.

"It's beautiful," I said, unable to help myself.

Pearson's expression remained impassive. "My father opened this place thirty years ago. It was the first restaurant in his empire, before he expanded into hotels and resorts. This was always his favorite."

There was something in his voice that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. His jaw tightened, and when he looked at me, the coldness was back.

"Which is why I find it particularly galling that he left it to his whore."

The word hit me like a slap. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He walked to one of the tables and picked up a leather-bound folder. "But since dear old dad decided in his infinite wisdom that we're stuck together, let's establish some ground rules."

I wanted to walk out. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to leave and never look back. But Brodie's face flashed in my mind, along with the court date looming over him.

"I'm listening," I said through gritted teeth.

"First, you don't touch anything without my approval. No changes, no decisions, nothing. You're here because the will requires it, not because you have anything valuable to contribute." He opened the folder and pulled out several documents. "Second, you stay out of the kitchen. Marco doesn't need some failed boutique owner telling him how to cook."

"I never said—"

"Third," he continued, speaking over me, "you don't speak to the press, investors, or anyone else about this restaurant without clearing it through me first. The last thing I need is you embarrassing my father's legacy with whatever sob story you're planning to peddle."

My nails dug into my palms. "Are you done?"

"Almost." He walked closer, and I hated that my breath caught. "Fourth, this arrangement is purely professional. Whatever game you think you're playing, whatever you're hoping to get out of spending time with me, forget it. I know exactly what you are, Isabella. My father might have fallen for your act, but I won't."

"I never met your father," I said for what felt like the hundredth time.

Pearson laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Right. And I'm sure he just randomly decided to leave his most prized possession to a struggling boutique owner he'd never met. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I think you're an arrogant ass who's decided I'm guilty without any evidence."

"Evidence?" His eyes flashed. "My father started pulling away from family dinners about a year ago. He made secret phone calls. He changed his will three months before he died, and surprise, surprise, you're in it. If it walks like a mistress and talks like a mistress—"

"Then it must be a mistress?" I stepped closer to him, fury overriding my sense of self-preservation. "You want to know the truth, Mr. Pearson? I have no idea why your father left me anything. I don't know how he knew me or why he chose me. But I'm not going to stand here and let you accuse me of something I didn't do."

"Save the righteous indignation. It doesn't work on me." He pulled out his phone, typed something, and then showed me the screen. It was a bank transfer screen. "Here's twenty-five thousand dollars. For your brother's legal troubles, I assume."

I stared at the phone, then at him. "How did you—"

"I told you, I've done my research. Your brother, Brodie Long, currently being held on trafficking charges. Needs a lawyer. You need money." He hit send on the transfer. "Consider it an advance on the restaurant's future profits. Or consider it a way for me to buy your cooperation. Either way, the money's yours."

"I don't want your money."

"Yes, you do. You're desperate for it." He pocketed his phone. "But here's what you're going to do in exchange. You show up every day at nine sharp. You do whatever menial tasks I assign you. You keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself. And at the end of the year, when this ridiculous arrangement is over, you sign away your rights to the restaurant for a reasonable settlement. Deal?"

Every word dripped with condescension and contempt. He was offering me exactly what I needed while making it crystal clear what he thought of me. I should have thrown his money back in his face. I should have told him exactly where he could shove his deal.

But I thought of Brodie sitting in a cell. I thought of the court date and the possibility of my brother going to prison. I thought of how I'd promised our parents I'd take care of him.

"Fine," I whispered.

"What was that? I didn't quite hear you."

I lifted my chin and met his eyes. "I said fine. I'll take your deal."

"Excellent." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Now, your first task. The storeroom in the back needs organizing. Should keep you busy for a few days. Try not to break anything."

He walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the beautiful restaurant, my hands shaking with a mixture of rage and humiliation. I pulled out my phone and saw the notification—the money had already hit my account.

I had just sold my dignity for twenty-five thousand dollars, and Alexander Pearson knew it.