Flash Marriage To The Secret Billionaire

Preston Finch tapped his gold watch against the wooden table, the sharp sound making the muscles in Kittie Ramos's neck pull tight.

"Three years," Preston said, his eyes dragging over the faded fabric of Kittie's trench coat like it was a stain on the floor. "That is the timeline. You close that little flower shop of yours, we move to my apartment in Manhattan, and we have two kids. I need a wife who understands her primary function."

Kittie stared at him. The half-eaten croissant on her plate suddenly looked like cardboard. A sour taste coated the back of her throat, and her stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot.

She pressed her thumb against her index finger, picking at the edge of her nail until it stung. This was her adoptive mother's idea of a perfect match. A Wall Street analyst who treated a first date like a corporate merger. Just this morning, her brother Miles had texted her, nagging her to reach out to his old college roommate, Connor, who was supposedly back in town working in tech somewhere nearby. Maybe I should have asked him for help with my shop's website instead of agreeing to this nightmare, she thought bitterly.

Preston pulled out his phone, shoving the screen into her face.

"Look at this view," he bragged, pointing to a sterile, high-rise living room. "You do not get this in Boston. You people here lack ambition. I am offering you an upgrade."

Kittie took a slow, shallow breath. The air in the coffee shop felt too thick to pull into her lungs. She forced the corners of her mouth up, her facial muscles protesting the fake smile.

"Right," Kittie said, her voice tight. "An upgrade."

Preston leaned back, crossing his arms.

"To prove you can follow directions," he said, his tone dropping into a command. "My car is parked out front. A bird ruined the hood. Go ask the waiter for a wet towel and clean it off. Now."

The knot in Kittie's stomach snapped. The blood rushed to her ears, a loud, roaring sound that drowned out the soft jazz playing in the background.

Her hand moved before her brain fully processed the decision. She grabbed the plastic cup of iced Americano sitting between them. The condensation made her fingers wet and cold.

Preston was still talking, his mouth moving around words about a weekend in the Hamptons.

Kittie flipped her wrist.

The dark liquid, heavy with ice cubes, hit Preston squarely in the crotch of his custom-tailored suit pants.

Preston let out a high-pitched shriek. He jumped up so fast his chair tipped backward and slammed into the floor. The ice cubes bounced off his thighs and scattered across the hardwood.

The entire cafe went dead silent. The clinking of spoons and the low hum of conversation stopped.

Kittie pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser. She wiped the cold moisture off her fingers, her hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline dumping into her veins.

She tossed the crumpled napkin right at Preston's face.

"You crazy bitch!" Preston screamed, his face turning a blotchy, ugly red. "Do you know how much these pants cost? You stupid, uneducated hillbilly!"

"Congratulations," Kittie said, picking up her worn leather purse. "Your expensive pants finally have a personality."

She turned to walk away.

Preston lunged forward. His hand shot out, his thick fingers aiming right for her arm.

Kittie saw the movement out of the corner of her eye, but her feet felt glued to the floor. Her breath hitched in her throat.

A large, pale hand clamped down on Preston's wrist mid-air.

The grip was so sudden and brutal that Preston let out a sharp gasp of pain.

Kittie blinked, stepping back.

A man stood beside their table. He wore a crisp, dark button-down shirt with no visible logos, but the fabric stretched tight across broad shoulders.

Kittie looked up and her lungs forgot how to work.

Connor. Her older brother Miles's college roommate.

Connor's eyes were fixed on Preston. They were a pale, icy blue, and he did not blink. He looked at the Wall Street analyst the way a person looks at a cockroach on a kitchen counter.

Connor twisted his wrist just a fraction of an inch.

Preston stumbled backward, his knees hitting the edge of the table. The color drained from his face.

"I suggest," Connor said, his voice so low and calm it made the hair on Kittie's arms stand up, "that you leave before I break this."

Preston did not say a word. He yanked his arm free, grabbed his leather briefcase with a trembling hand, and practically ran out the glass doors of the cafe.

Kittie stood frozen. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at Connor, her mind struggling to connect the quiet guy she barely remembered from college with the terrifying presence standing in front of her.

She forced her jaw to unclench.

"Hi," Kittie managed to say, her voice cracking. "That was... a family-arranged disaster."

Connor turned his head. The coldness in his eyes vanished the second he looked at her. The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

He reached out and pulled out the chair Preston had just vacated. He sat down, his movements smooth and completely relaxed.

He raised a hand, catching the waiter's attention.

"Two fresh coffees, please," Connor said.

Kittie stared at him. He acted like this was his living room. She slowly sat back down in her chair, her knees feeling weak.

Connor rested his arms on the table. His long index finger began to tap a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood.

"So," Connor said, his gaze locking onto hers. "How are you planning to survive the next blind date?"