I grow tired of waiting and write something I’m sure I will regret later.

  Nathan King: You’re just jealous I’m getting some.

  A minute passes without an answer. I’m an idiot. None of our past games work on her anymore. So, why do I keep trying to get her to challenge me like she used to? I love the fire in her, that spark of electricity that I can feel whenever we’re in the same room. No woman does it for me like Harley.

  Harley McQueen: Like I would ever be jealous of your disease-ridden skanks. Unlike you, I have standards.

  Someone’s cranky.

  She needs to get laid instead of working eighteen-hour days. Harley has no idea that I check the user logs to see when she’s online and what she’s working on—and she never will. It’s a little stalkerish but whatever. Carefully observing Harley from a distance is the only way I can feel close to her again as if I still know her. Like she’s still my Harley.

  Nathan King: It’s been that long, huh?

  Smoke must fly off her keyboard because her answer is instantaneous.

  Harley McQueen: No, you idiot.

  Nathan King: Don’t lie to me, Queen.

  Harley McQueen: Stop being a dick, King!

  That’s my girl.

  Now, it’s time to kick this conversation up a notch. I wish we didn’t have to fight the way we do. Our relationship was never this petty, but this is the only way I can get Harley to engage with me, to show me her teeth. To show me some part of her still cares.

  Nathan King: If you need the cobwebs cleaned off your chastity belt, you know where to find me.

  I expect an immediate response, but once again, I see how wrong I am about Harley. A minute later, a bubble finally appears on the screen.

  My desk phone beeps, scaring the shit out of me, and then Terrence says, “Mr. King, your ten o’clock is here.”

  Surprised by his intrusion, I accidentally click the mouse and log myself out of the QTK Messenger app. Shit! I bet Harley’s having a stroke right now, assuming I blew her off. Maybe it’s better this way. What good would have come from the conversation we were having?

  “Mr. King,” Terrence says.

  In case you’re wondering, I have a male secretary because my father said—and I quote—"I don’t trust you around the opposite sex in the workplace.” Harley’s one of the few women I’m allowed to interact with, and she hates my guts.

  “Who’s my ten o’clock?”

  “S-s-Sophie Davenport,” Terrence stutters, afraid of his own shadow.

  I slide my feet to the floor, sitting upright as I straighten my tie. “I don’t remember setting up a meeting with Sophie.”

  Sophie flirts with me every chance she gets, and I can’t afford another scandal right now. I avoid the new marketing guru whenever I see her around the office. Most of the time, I stick to the executive space on the twenty-third floor. Up here, this is my domain, where my team and I create the best fucking video games in the business. I don’t allow marketing or creative execs on my floor, and somehow, Sophie managed to work her way up to the top. She must be fucking someone important.

  “Your brother arranged the meeting,” Terrence says, his voice shaking. “Mr. King said he cleared it with you.”

  What an asshole. Is little brother trying to sabotage me?

  “Let me know when Stefan arrives.”

  “He’s not coming,” he says under his breath.

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “Can we reschedule?”

  “Um… Mr. King insisted. He said it was important.”

  My younger brother is such a pain in my ass.

  I glance at one of the five monitors on my desk, wondering if Harley is ready to kill me. For a second, I consider messaging her again. We’ve gone months at a time without speaking, and I miss talking to her already.

  “Mr. King,” Terrence says. “What do you want me to do?”

  I tap my knuckles on the desk, hoping I don’t regret this. “Send her in.”

  A few seconds later, my door creaks open, and Sophie pokes her head into my office. “Are you ready for me, Mr. King?”

  Not really.

  “Come in,” I say as I walk toward the conference table.

  Sophie closes the door behind her and strolls into my office, flicking her long, black hair over her shoulder. Her eyes widen as she looks around the room. My office is more sacred than my bedroom, an accurate representation of my personality in every way. Classic video game posters such as The Legend of Zelda and Doom are on the walls, mixed in with the games I’ve developed since my days at MIT. A projection screen extends from the ceiling, hanging low enough for me to reach. The back wall behind the conference table displays several flat-screen televisions with various gaming consoles on shelves beneath them.

  I wanted my office to remind me of the Hacker Hostel I lived in while I was in college. We sat around gaming and coding for hours, stumbling into class with little sleep, and sometimes high. Back then, I had no responsibilities and loved life.

  An oak mini bar sits beneath the Queen Takes King logo, a massive structure shaped from pieces of iron, copper, and a deck of playing cards. Harley designed our new logo—two interlocked crowns hovering above the queen of hearts and the king of spades. Every time I fix myself a drink, I stare up at what Harley created, admiring her artistic brilliance. She’s the most talented person I know.

  I extend my hand toward the table. “Please, sit.”

  Staring at me with wide blue eyes, Sophie rolls her tongue across her bottom lip. I glare at her, my hand still extended, and then she does as I command. Once she’s seated, I approach the table with caution.

  Sophie has no idea that she’s not my type.

  Blonde. Bossy. Beautiful.

  Harley McQueen.

  That’s my type.

  Sophie blushes ten shades of red that spreads down to her chest. Dressed in a blue blazer and a white dress shirt, she tugs at the first few buttons, which are open, exposing her black lacy bra. Her skirts are usually too short, a clear sign she’s trying way too hard. Harley is sexy without even trying, gorgeous, but not in the traditional sense.

  Harley doesn’t have straight teeth or a perfect nose, but it’s in her imperfections that I’ve always seen her beauty. She could wear one of her messy aprons covered in acrylic paint, and she would still be the most beautiful woman alive. Harley couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of her, and even less about what I think.

  “So,” Sophie says, snapping me back to reality. “Stefan wants us to talk about the commercial for Ashborn.”

  Oh, it’s Stefan now? That fucking asshole. If my brother wanted to do a favor for his fuck buddy, he should have left me out of it.

  “You should talk to my brother since he’s taking all of the credit for my work.”

  “Umm…” Sophie bites her bottom lip. “I thought we were going to discuss the marketing strategy. Your brother said you have ideas for the commercial.”

  I cock an eyebrow at her. “This is news to me.”

  I’m the Chief Technology Officer, the CTO of Queen Takes King. I’m in charge of the tech, not the marketing. I don’t know the first thing about directing a commercial, nor do I care to learn.

  My brother is the lead engineer for Ashborn, even though I created most of the fantasy world and wrote half of the code. After my dad flipped out over the game, Stefan slapped his name on it, claiming he came up with the idea before it was even in beta. I let him have it because what difference did it make? I still outrank him and own more shares in the company.

  “Mr. King,” Sophie says as she slides her hand onto my thigh.

  I narrow my eyes at her and scoot my chair away from hers. What the fuck is she doing? I lowered my guard because she’s clearly with my brother, but I guess one King isn’t enough for her. I’m going to kill Stefan for setting up this meeting. Like I need another headache to deal with right now.

  Sophie leans forward, her fingers touching my knee. “I was hoping we could work on more pressing projects.”

  Before I can push her hand away, my door hits the wall with a loud boom. My dad strolls into my office, looking like Wall Street Santa, with his white beard, round belly, and rosy cheeks. Though, to his credit, he’s dressed impeccably in a bespoke suit that makes his stomach look slightly smaller and a pair of Berluti leather loafers that look as if they were military spit-shined. King men learn the importance of looks from an early age. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

  My dad points his finger at Sophie. “What’s your name?”

  “Sophie Davenport,” she stammers, visibly shaking.

  My dad’s nostrils flare as he approaches the table. “And where do you work, Sophie Davenport?”

  She slides her chair out from the table and jumps to her feet. “In the marketing department, sir.”

  He glares down at her. “Go pack your things. You’re fired.”

  “Dad, no.” I push out my hand between us as I get up from the chair. “Nothing happened.”

  “I’m sick of this shit, Nate.” He turns to Sophie and then points at the door. “Out. Now.”

  “You’re not fired, Sophie,” I say. “Just go back to your desk.”

  “Don’t you dare undermine me, boy,” he growls, his face inches from mine.

  Sophie gathers her notepads and folders and rushes out of the room in tears.

  “Way to go, Dick,” I snap.

  “Don’t call me Dick. I’m your father, goddammit.”

  “Well, you’re sure acting like one, Dick.”

  Richard “Dick” King has a reputation for being a hardass. He’s gone by Dick since college, and the name is fitting.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through this morning? What you’ve put this company through?” He tugs at his hair that’s now more white than black and groans. “We’re going to lose everything. You knew how much we needed a partnership with Titan Tech. They think we’re heathens. That you’re some kind of sexual predator. Do you have any idea what you have done?”

  Turning my back to him, I walk over to the mini bar on the opposite side of my office. After I fix each of us a glass of whiskey, I hand one to my dad. He shakes his head in disgust but takes the drink without complaint. We take a sip from our glasses, which gives me a few seconds to think without him yelling. My dad blows hotter than a furnace when he’s mad.

  I sit behind my desk, and he takes the chair across from me, kicking his foot up on the edge of the wood.

  “Titan Tech is a family company,” he says through clenched teeth.

  I set my drink on my desk and lean back in my leather chair. “So is Queen Takes King.”

  “They have certain standards, morals you don’t seem to possess. Titan believes in family values, and screwing around with models doesn’t fit their values. I just spent thirty minutes on the phone with Carl Voss, pleading with him to hear us out. I told him the girl in the pictures is your fiancée.”

  My mouth falls open in shock. “My what? I don’t even have a girlfriend. No one would believe that.”

  The worry lines on his forehead pop as he leans forward, his anger seething through him. “Well, you had better find one. The Vosses won’t do business with people who aren’t wholesome.”

  I snort at his comment. “There’s nothing wholesome about any of us.”

  “You need a wife, Nathan. It’s the only way to make this partnership work.”

  Taking a swig from my glass, I glare at him. “You’re serious? You want me to get married?”

  He nods. “Our new product line is dependent on their capital investment, and without it, we’re screwed.”

  “What if I found another investor? Reid Grayson is back in town.”

  His cheeks flush crimson. “We don’t have enough time.”

  “There’s no way the press will believe I’m engaged. Not after all of the articles about me being Philadelphia’s most eligible bachelor.”

  “You seem to have a thing for blondes,” he spits back with fire behind his words. “Danika can spin a few tales about the girl in the pictures. You need this girl’s help to bail you out of this mess.”

  “I don’t even know her name,” I lie.

  “It doesn’t matter. You need someone who has as much to lose as you. Someone who will benefit from this unlawful union.”

  I cock an eyebrow at him. “Who?”

  “Harley McQueen.” His voice doesn’t even waver when he says her name.

  Chills roll down my arms. The thought of putting Harley through this…

  “Absolutely not. Harley hates me. She would never go through with a fake marriage.”

  “She will if her dad tells her to do it.” He tips the glass to his lips and smirks. “She’s our best chance. The woman in the pictures could easily be Harley.”

  “Who came up with this plan, you or Danika?”

  “Danika might have mentioned it to me,” he says with a wink.

  “Did you ask Jonathan what he thinks about this plan? I’m sure he doesn’t want you pimping out his daughter for sport.”

  “This is business, Nate. I’ve worked my entire life to take this company public. So has Jonathan. We’re not losing everything because of your childish behavior.” His eyes narrow into slits as he looks across the desk at me. “You better convince Harley to marry you. I don’t care how you do it. Just make it happen.”

  “No, I’m not doing that to her. She doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Boy, you will do it, or you won’t be the CTO of this company for long.”

  “I’m not a boy,” I snap. “And I’d like to see how this place runs without me.”

  “Jonathan will make Harley see this is for the good of the company. Why can’t you be more like her?”

  His words trigger an intense rage inside me. Even though I’m the oldest and a better coder than Stefan, he’s still the favorite son. I’ve earned a position of power by taking what I want, but my dad will never see me as his equal. I will always be the fuck-up.

  After a long pause, I dig my elbows into the wood and lean forward, meeting his gaze. “Because I’ve never been one to follow the rules.”

  “No, you haven’t.” He sighs. “You’re nothing but a pain in my ass,” he says as he slams his empty glass down on my desk. He rises to his full height, a scowl on his withered face as he looks down at me with disdain. “You either fix this, or I will fix it for you.”

  “Leave Harley out of this,” I challenge as I stand.

  He’s lost a few inches with age and gained fifty pounds from the stress, but I still look a lot like him when he was twenty-seven. We have the same green eyes and dark brown hair that most people mistake for black.

  “What choice did you leave any of us?” His features soften into something that resembles sadness as his voice wavers. “You only think about yourself, and now everyone in this family will have to suffer because of it.”

  “Harley isn’t family.”

  “Yes, she damn well is. Jonathan is like a brother to me. Harley is my goddaughter. Unlike you, she will do the right thing.”

  “I created most of our top-selling products, old man. I’ve done plenty of good things for this company. You seem to forget that.”

  He whips his head in my direction and snarls. “Don’t you dare. Every time you screw up, you expect me to praise you for your accomplishments. How can anyone see the good you’ve done when it’s muddled with so much bad?”

  “Sorry, we all can’t be perfect like Stefan, who, by the way, is fucking the woman you just threw out of my office.”

  He shakes his head and sighs. “So much potential… and you let it all go to waste. For what?” My dad blows out a puff of air. “You’re getting married in thirty days.”

  My jaw unhinges. Thirty days?

  “We can pretend I’m getting married to give Voss a good show, but nothing about it will be real.”

  “How do you think I smoothed things over with Carl? He can’t wait to attend your beach wedding. Nassau is beautiful this time of year.”

  “I’ll find someone,” I promise. “Just leave Harley out of this.”

  He grips the doorknob, his back to me. “You have twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter Three

  Harley

  Willow strolls into my bedroom and announces herself by clearing her throat.

  “Pick up your tiara, princess,” she says with a smile.

  Shaking my head, I laugh at my roommate. “What are you talking about?”

  She nods at the pile of clothes on my bed and sighs. “You’ve tried on every dress in your closet and half of mine. You’re never this indecisive.”

  I lift a pale blue sweater dress from the bed.

  She shakes her head. “Nope, not that one.” Willow points at the sleeves that have white paint stains on the fabric. “You need to be more careful when you’re painting, babe.”

  I mostly use acrylic paint because it’s easier to clean, but I prefer the look of oil paint on canvas. Most of my clothes have either paint or charcoal on them from years of painting and drawing.

  Willow takes the dress from my hand, and I give her a pouty look. She drops it onto the bed and throws her hands onto her narrow hips.

  “What is it going to take to turn that frown upside down? Men sense fear and desperation faster than I can spot a last season Fendi bag.”

  I snort at her comment. “I’m not afraid or desperate. I don’t even know what I feel right now. And it’s not like you can afford a Fendi bag to know the difference,” I say with laughter in my voice.

  “I just borrow yours, living vicariously through your daddy’s bank account.” Willow chuckles. “At least he’s good for something.”