I read somewhere that curdled milk is a bad omen.

It also said that some dream interpretations perceive it as a sign of dirty money.

While that certainly brought on a sense of foreboding for the day that was to come, I told myself that the milk expired a week ago, and I just didn't have the money to do a grocery run yet. I also reasoned that since it was in my fridge and not in a dream, the interpretation couldn't be applicable.

I threw out the milk that morning. I made my own trail mix from crumbs at the bottom of the soda cracker box, some unsweetened chocolate chips from my dwindling baking supplies, and a handful of expired mixed nuts. After chasing down a half-bowl of it with a cup of black coffee, I got dressed and started my walk to the bus stop for my five a.m. shift at Marlow's.

The diner at the corner of Franklin St., in the center of the finance district, was a historical icon that both old and new players of the money-trade industry respected and patronized.

Its kitchen served hot and greasy breakfast from six-thirty to eleven in the morning and lunch from eleven to three. Once the markets closed, Marlow's separate lounge came to life—a perfect chaos of televised sports events, alcohol and hot wings.

I started working at Marlow's when I was only fourteen, doing just the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner since I couldn't serve alcohol yet at the lounge. I did it early in the morning and on weekends during the schoolyear and almost all week during the summer. It was good money—the customers were usually cleaner, a little better dressed, and less inclined to grope, unlike other seedier diners. Since they mostly worked white-collared jobs, they paid good tips.

While I was ecstatic about leaving for Paris to become a pastry chef, I missed the diner during the six months I was gone. When I returned to the city, I showed up at Bobby's office straight from the airport, and asked for my old job back which he'd been happy to give me. The last year and a half since I came back have been hard. Without this job, I wouldn't have managed to pull through.

Which is why I was adamant to keep it. Keeping it meant I didn't physically assault customers, and that meant trying my mighty best not to smash the hot sauce bottle on this man's beautiful face.

Brandon Maxfield. What a bastard.

Macy poked her head into the lunch room earlier where I was taking a short break and reading a local tabloid, and told me that Mr. Maxfield was asking for me specifically. That confused me because everyone in Marlow's knew Martin and referred to him by his first name. He also never came on Saturday mornings. I was always out working my tables when he came in on his usual schedule which was why he never had to summon me before.

I tossed the core of the apple I'd been munching on, washed my hands, and headed out to the dining area. Scanning the room, I found Martin's usual spot, which was in a corner booth by the window, empty.

Macy must've made a mistake but she coudn't possibly miss the old man. He had a thick shock of silver hair and a large, booming voice that matched his laughter.

"Char, over there," Macy called out to me from the prep bar where she was sorting her orders. She cocked her head to the side in the direction of the back most corner booth on the complete opposite side of the diner from where Martin's usual spot would be.

My brows furrowed further at her wide eyes and nervous shrug.

Jeez. This couldn't be any odder.

Martin was such a flirty, adorable, old man and all the girls here loved him. Macy looked like she was skating rather clumsily around egg shells instead of walking on them.

As I made my way to the booth, Bruce Cooper, one of our regulars, stopped me with a smack on my butt as I walked past him.

I stopped, took a few steps back and smacked him on the head to which he only laughed.

"Damn, Little Lottie, what an arm you've got!" he exclaimed with another stream of short, snort-like chuckles. "You could be wielding a whip with that and teaching me to be a good boy."

I raised a brow. "Why would I waste my time doing that when I could be pitching for the Sox? Or whacking grabby guys like you with a police baton before throwing you into a cell in the station down the block?"

Bruce just smirked. "Typical of you, Lottie, to always aspire for something way above us, poor sods, here."

I beamed.

Bruce Cooper was a hedge fund manager, and there wasn't really a lot above him unless you counted the few geek billionaires and royalty.

"Now, now, Bruce, don't get ideas into my head," I told him playfully. "I might just marry one of you, poor sods, and turn myself into one of those real housewife celebrities."

The man's face actually turned a little green. "God, no. Don't you dare, Lottie."

"If it happens, we know it's your fault," I told him with a wink before continuing on my way to Martin, a spring in my step.

I haven't seen Martin in about a week actually but that wasn't always surprising. He was a pretty busy and important man and we always figured that he was away on business trips when he wouldn't show up for several days.

I looked forward to sitting with him this morning and letting him try the salted caramel éclair I left inside the restaurant cooler earlier.

"Hey, Mart—"

I stopped cold, my eyes narrowing at the man sitting in the booth, impatiently tapping his fingers on the laminate countertop.

A face filed away in my memory a long time ago surged to the surface, and I barely stopped myself from sucking in a deep, surprised breath in front of him.

I forced my heart to return to beating.

Well, who have we got here.

"You are not Mr. Maxfield," I blurted out, accusation in my voice.

The man's thick, dark brow rose at my statement and I got the full effect of his arrogance before his mouth even opened.

"Excuse me?" he demanded.

Crossing my arms, I pursed my lips and studied him.

He had thick, dark brown hair that curled softly around his ears and the nape of his neck, a prominent, perfectly straight and narrow nose, a strong jaw, and a pair of dark hazel eyes that were currently flickering with disdain as he returned my inspection.

He was definitely an attractive man—the dark coloring of his hair and eyes were seductive while the condescending tilt of his full, wide mouth was a little maddening.

My memory of him and all the sources that built it didn't do the man much justice and did nothing to prepare me for this moment I've been half-dreaming, half-dreading for a while now.

Easy, Charlotte. You don't really know him all that well despite what you think.

I especially didn't know that he would be reeking of self-importance, with him looking like he knew he could be somewhere else doing something a lot more pleasant than sitting there and being scrutinized by a waitress at Marlow's.

"Macy said Mr. Maxfield specifically asked for me," I explained impatiently. "I'm looking at you and you're definitely not him."

A frown started between his brows and never left. "I am definitely Mr. Maxfield—Brandon Christopher Maxfield, to be precise."

Based on the tailoring and materials of his dark blue sports jacket and white shirt, he was definitely rich and showed it well—nothing less than I expected of him. But there was nothing about him at all that reminded me of Martin who had silver hair, happy blue eyes and a kind smile—maybe except for the stubborn chin which he tipped up at me rudely in indignation.

I have a suspicion that today will be the day I stop scribbling his name with flowers and hearts in my journal. Nothing like meeting the person in reality to ruin your dream version of him.

I mentally shook my dreamy, distracted thoughts of him away and focused on his hazel eyes which were gleaming with obvious distaste.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Ah, yes. The younger, more ambitious, less charming Mr. Maxfield. Nice to meet you."

Oh yes, I knew of Brandon Maxfield, alright. He was splattered all over the media since he was the heir apparent to Maxfield Industries and its current president. He was ruthless in business, well in demand at social functions, and easy on the eye to top it all off.

Since I was friends with Martin, I've heard enough about him—both good and bad—but he just always seemed like a character in a book that I've read over and over again and who always stayed confined to the pages.

Okay, so he was a little more than just a character—he was the prince who loved Charlotte, I mean, Cinderella—but these were fantasies I had when I was sixteen, when Martin started telling me about him and I started paying attention to everything about him that the media dished out.

In the last year or so, I haven't had the time or the heart to fantasize about my own fairy tales again. I've grown jaded enough to know that I probably never will.

He looked at the hand I extended, as if it were a snake about to spring forward and coil around his neck, before he briefly shook it.

"Sarcasm isn't the most polite of greetings, Ms. Samuels," he answered in a tone brittle with annoyance as he quickly released my hand. "You aren't so charming yourself."

I ignored the traces of heat his hand left on my palm and shrugged. "And you just made a hypocrite of yourself with that sarcastic comment. Now we're even."

Anger flared in his gold-flecked, brown-green eyes. "Not even close. Why don't you take a seat and we'll discuss business."

I shook my head. "I don't believe we have any business together, Mr. Maxfield. And I have work to do. Macy will come by and take your order when you're ready. Good day—"

I had just turned when his arm shot out and grabbed my elbow in an iron grip.

I glanced at it and narrowed my eyes at him. "I would let go if I were you. No one would blink an eye here if I break your nose for touching me."

His gaze darkened, his grip not loosening one bit. "I wouldn't threaten men who are twice your size if I were you, Ms. Samuels. Others here may let you get away with playing tease like old Bruce back there, but some of us have a little more self-respect than that. I'm certainly a lot more discerning where I get my kicks from. Even a well-oiled bike breaks down after so many men have ridden it."

Red flashed in my vision and before I knew it, I threw a punch.

My fist grazed his jaw before punching into air and before I could react, he was on his feet, grabbing me by the shoulders, propelling me into the booth, and settling himself in front of me so I was trapped between him and the table.

He was much larger and stronger than I thought, and he looked downright furious.

"Let go of me, you ass!" I yelled at him as I struggled to push him off the seat, but he was pure muscle under the shirt and jacket that he didn't budge an inch. "You're an arrogant, offensive cockhead and I'm not wasting my time on you."

"Stop swearing!" he hissed at me, aware that heads popped up at my raised voice. "I don't want to talk with you any more than you want to talk with me, but we're in a mess that you created and I want you to fix it."

That got my attention.

I stopped struggling and stared at him as if he sprouted a horn—make that two horns since he was probably the devil.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, releasing me. "Oh, you very well know what I'm talking about, Ms. Samuels. Didn't you plan all of this out? Play my father right into your hands so he would do anything you asked, including blackmailing his own son so you can get what you want?"

I frowned. "I'll give you exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I scream murder. My friends down at the Dalhousie precinct aren't very fond of pervs and bullies like you."

Watching his jaw clench, a muscle ticking under his left eye, I realized just how angry Brandon Maxfield was. There was no humor for him in all of this, and he was barely restraining himself from reaching over and wringing my neck. As to why he was mad at me, I didn't know.

Be the adult, Charlotte. Attempt a civil conversation even if the man is a total ape.

"Let's try this again," I said in a calmer tone. "What are you here for? Tell me as if I'm hearing this for the first time because I bet I am. Please and thanks."

I was proud of my perfectly pleasant statement but it seemed to infuriate him further because he dragged in a deep, loud breath as if fighting for control.

"I'm here to propose marriage, Ms. Samuels," he said in a grave voice as if he just announced a death sentence—for whom, that I wasn't sure about.

I blinked a few times before I grinned and lost it, throwing my head back laughing.

"What exactly is so hilarious about the situation, Ms. Samuels?" he demanded.

Clutching my stomach, I shook my head as I tried to stem the flow of my laughter. I brushed a few tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand and looked at him.

Well, the man looked serious—or had an excellent poker face.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought I just heard you say you were here to propose marriage to me. Who put you up to this? Martin? Where's that sly old man so I can give him his payback for this?"

"My father is in Amsterdam right now," he answered, still without any humor. "He left two days ago with a warning that if we're not engaged yet by the time he arrived in a week, he would put forward my cousin, Francis Pelletier, as the new CEO of Maxfield Industries when he retires later this year."

The smile vanished from my mouth as it hung open while his statement replayed in my head. It took a moment before I finally understood what he said.

My brows shot up. "Why the hell would Martin do that?"

He raised one brow himself. "You call him Martin like that and you wonder why? Obviously my father is smitten with a teenage gold-digger like you, but instead of marrying you himself, he throws you at me because you probably prefer younger meat."

"If by younger meat you mean yourself, no, thank you," I said acidly, now seething at his insults. "You're obviously made of vile, unpleasant stuff and would be most likely hard to chew on, considering how much of a stiff-ass you are. I would marry Martin over you any time, except that I don't marry men who are like a father to me because that's just wrong in so many levels. And if you knew your father really well, you'd know that he will never marry anyone else. He can't lose a heart he'd already lost to Evelyn a long time ago."

Martin was a widower after his second wife, Evelyn, died young of an aneurysm four years ago. Brandon was his son with his first wife whom he'd married young at his family's insistence. She'd died from an accident when Brandon was only five. Evelyn was a young, bright-eyed twenty-something when she married Martin two years after he lost his wife. I affectionately called Martin an old man because of his silvery hair but he was a great man who cherished his younger wife and adored all his children. Evelyn's death though dealt him a shock that quickly became evident in his physical health. A few years had passed but he was still feeling it despite his cheerful smiles.

"Then explain to me why he insists that I marry you," he spat out. "Explain why he's willing to go as far as to threaten me out of a position I've worked hard to earn for as long as I could remember. Explain why marrying a nineteen-year-old, foul-mouthed, punch-throwing diner waitress is worth everything I'm already entitled to."

I snorted. "If you think that way, then you don't deserve anything that you're already entitled to. As for your father's actions, I suggest you ask him because I certainly didn't decree for him to do this. In fact, I'll give him a piece of my mind when I see him—for this completely ridiculous idea, and for putting me through the traumatic experience of having to deal with you."

"You will not tell my father anything except that you've accepted my proposal," Brandon said. "He specifically instructed that you're not to be informed of any of this—that I must convince you to marry me without bribery or coercion."

"Well, now I can see why you won't make a good CEO," I muttered. "Not only are you incapable of following instructions, you're also a cheat. Plus, you're just so effortlessly offensive."

He scowled. "I'm only offensive to opportunists like you who play an old, gullible man right into their plans."

"Gullible?" I asked with a loud, wry laugh. "You really think Martin Maxfield is gullible? You're the one who's gullible if you think that of him. And as much as I'd like to take the credit for being so cunning, I'm afraid I can't, because if I were really that good in plotting out to marry well, I'd certainly choose someone more pleasant than you are."

"Many things can be made pleasant with a lot of money, Ms. Samuels," he sneered. "And I happen to know I'm the biggest catch around here. I'm also not old, bald, fat and strung with a few ex-wives who demand ridiculous alimonies."

At that moment, I honestly couldn't recall any reason why I thought of Brandon Maxfield as my own prince charming. None of the articles about him ever clued me in on just how incredibly crude he could be.

I raised a brow at him. "Well, you've certainly got an ego to match your bank account. You must absolutely hate having to grovel at your father's feet for the CEO position, and subject yourself to his whims."

His fists clenched. "What I absolutely hate is providing opportunists like you the chance to take advantage of someone because I need you for something I'm working hard to achieve. But I'm pragmatic, Ms. Samuels. Instead of quarreling with you, I'd rather we come to an amicable business agreement that will give us both what we want."

Kneading the space between my brows, I snuck a glance at him. "I'm listening because it's less effort for me than to try to dent the table with you pretty face."

His lips twitched that for a second I thought he was about to smile, but it disappeared so quickly I wasn't even sure I'd seen it in the first place.

"I'll agree with my father's condition and marry you," he started and I clamped down on my protests until he was done. If I let my mouth run away with me, we'd never be done here. I might just kill him before I could walk away from this table.

"But I want you to insist on a pre-nup which he didn't want us to have, and I want us to only stay married for a year which was the minimum period he'd accept. Don't ask me why because I don't know what he thinks can be gained out of this to begin with, much less a year into it," he continued.

I put a hand up to stop him, unable to keep a lid on it any longer. "If I were really the opportunist you think I am, why the hell would I agree to a pre-nup that I'm sure would give me nothing, if left to your lawyers to craft?"

"Because I will pay you for your services, Ms. Samuels," he said curtly. "I will pay you a million dollars to stay married to me for a year."

My jaw dropped so fast I was surprised I didn't feel the cold, hard surface of the table top. I barely managed to shut it close and swallow hard.

A million dollars. Jesus. That's six zeroes—more zeroes than I've got in my bank account before the negative sign.