"That was almost smooth," I said. "For a man with a laminated affection protocol."
"I contain multitudes. Most of them are spreadsheets."
Nathan's penthouse looked like a furniture showroom that had never known love. White couches. Grey walls. A coffee table so empty it echoed.
"You live like a witness protection program," I said, dropping my suitcase in the marble foyer. "Where's your stuff?"
"This is my stuff."
"This is a museum with Wi-Fi."
"Your room is down the hall. Housekeeper comes Tuesdays. If you use the third-floor gym before six, avoid Carlos, he narrates his workouts."
"Noted. Anything else, husband?"
"One thing." He pulled out his phone, tapped twice, and turned the screen to me.
It was a video. Grainy, vertical, clearly filmed from across a casino floor.
Me. Standing on a blackjack table. Pointing at Nathan. Shouting.
The audio kicked in: "—MARRY ME, NATHAN CROSS. I'VE SEEN YOUR BUDGETS. I'VE SEEN YOUR SOUL. ALSO YOU'RE PRETTY. THAT'S A FOOTNOTE. MARRY ME OR I'LL RAISE MY OWN SERIES A AND BUY YOUR COMPANY JUST TO MAKE YOU ATTEND MY MEETINGS—"
I watched myself get proposed-married by my own drunk mouth.
"Kill it," I whispered.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because the casino's security system has a copy. And because my lawyer has a copy. And because—" he paused, and for the first time since I'd met him, Nathan Cross looked genuinely, radiantly uncomfortable, "—because I watched it four times on the flight."
The penthouse was silent except for the hum of a refrigerator that cost more than my student loans.
"Four times," I said.
"For legal review."
"Legal review."
"Extensive legal review."
I smiled. I couldn't help it. "Nathan. Did you like me before Vegas?"
He set his phone face-down on the counter with the caution of a man defusing a bomb.
"Your second week at Cross," he said. "When you called my projections customer-phobic."
"THAT'S when?"
"You were wrong about the projections, incidentally."
"I was six percent right."
"You were six percent right," he admitted, "at maximum volume, in front of forty people, and it was the best meeting I'd had in three years. I drafted your promotion that night."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"So let me get this straight. You've been quietly obsessed with me for months, and your opening move was letting me drunk-marry you in front of your ex-fiancée?"
"My opening move was hiring you. Vegas was... improvisation."
"Vegas was a catastrophe."
"Vegas," he said, looking me dead in the eye, "was the most efficient thing I've ever done."
I needed to sit down. I needed to sit down and possibly call a priest, even though I was pretty sure my religion didn't cover this.
Before I could respond, the doorbell rang.
Nathan checked the security feed and his jaw did something complicated.
"Problem?" I asked.
"It's a Cross."
He pressed the intercom. "Marcus. It's seven a.m."
A cheerful voice crackled through. "And a beautiful morning to be a married man, big brother. Open up, I brought bagels and gossip, and I've read you only get one of those in this building."
Nathan closed his eyes like a man praying for strength. He buzzed the door.
"Marcus is—" he started.
"The brother. The spare. I read the company wiki."
"The wiki undersells me," said a tall man strolling in with a bag in one hand and two coffees balanced on top, grinning like a golden retriever that had learned to buy things. "Marcus Cross. Chaotic middle energy, family disappointment, and your new brother-in-law, apparently. Congratulations. Or condolences. The group chat hasn't decided."
He handed me a coffee. I took it, because trauma bonding runs on caffeine.
"You're taking this well," I said.
"Are you kidding? This is the best thing that's happened to this family since Grandmother died and made everything a game show. Vanessa is feral, Damien is doing that thing where he smiles at boats, and you—" he pointed at me with a bagel, "—you're trending. #WhoIsShe. There are fan accounts. Someone made a t-shirt of the tiara."
"There is a t-shirt of my drunk tiara."
"I bought two."
"I'm going to like you," I said, horrified.
"Everyone does. It's my only marketable skill." Marcus dropped onto the white couch with his shoes on, and I watched Nathan's soul briefly leave his body. "Okay, real talk, newlyweds. Vanessa's father filed the challenge, yes?"
"This morning," Nathan said.
"Then you should know Vanessa's already booked the Whitmore gala for next weekend. Whole board's invited. Including you two. She's planning to introduce the family's 'official' position on the marriage. Which, spoiler, rhymes with 'flaud.'"