Flash Marriage To The Mysterious Doctor

"How many blind dates does this make for you?"

Outside, a late autumn rain streaked down the windows of the coffee shop, but inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of roasted beans.

Alexa Hood sank into the leather booth, her gaze drifting lazily toward the man across from her. She parted her lips-a deep, matte crimson-and let out the question she asked every time.

The man sitting opposite was, objectively, devastating. When he'd shed his overcoat, what remained was a charcoal cashmere sweater that clung to the architecture of his chest and the swell of his biceps.

"Twenty-something," he said, arms folded as he leaned back against the booth, his posture radiating an almost offensive level of indifference. "Lost count."

"And none of them worked out?"

A faint, unreadable smile flickered across Alexa's face. She toyed with the small spoon in her cappuccino, swirling the foam into nothing.

The man didn't shift. "I didn't want them to work out."

Interesting. This was easily the most arrogant man she'd ever sat across from in one of these arranged disasters.

She let her smile stretch wider, raking her gaze over him from his dark hair to his broad shoulders, slow and deliberate, like she was appraising a piece of real estate she wasn't sure she wanted to buy.

"My aunt says you're quite the catch," she said. "Twenty-eight. Apartment on the Upper East Side, six-figure savings," she gestured vaguely at him, "So if you're not here to succeed, what's the problem? Some kind of... unmentionable condition?"

He sat forward slightly, one hand coming down on the table, his mouth tugging into a smirk that matched her own.

"Alexa Hood. Wall Street analyst. Approaches everything with ruthless logic. Lives with your mother. Twenty-three failed blind dates and counting." He paused, his dark eyes glinting. "Tell me-is the problem that you're not attracted to men at all?"

Touché, asshole.

Alexa's expression relaxed into something almost like amusement. She settled back into her seat.

"Takes one to know one," she said. "Here's the truth: I'm not interested in marriage. I support myself, I make my own decisions, and I don't see the appeal of bringing a man into my life just so he can clutter up my apartment and tell me what to do."

The man across from her let out a low, appreciative laugh. "Then we're in the same boat." He met her eyes. "I have my own... unmentionable condition."

Alexa's smile tightened at the edges. "You really don't hold back with strangers, do you?"

"This is what blind dates are for, isn't it? Family background, personal habits, hobbies-anything I can discuss, I'll discuss openly." His tone was light, but there was an edge of calculation beneath it. "That way, you won't be able to complain to our matchmaker that I wasn't forthcoming."

"Right," she said. "Well. That clears things up. I won't waste any more of your time."

She reached for her coat, and began to rise.

"Don't rush off." His voice stopped her. "I have a proposition. Hear me out. If it works for you, it's an option. If not, no harm done."

"Look," she said, her voice colder than she intended. "I'm only here because my aunt is friends with your mother. I'm not looking for a relationship. I work sixty hours a week, and I'm drowning in debt mess left by my father. So unless you have a thing for financially unstable workaholics, we can go our separate ways."

He didn't even blink. He swirled the deep red liquid in his glass, watching the way it clung to the sides. "And are you happy with that? Drowning?"

His question was a scalpel, sharp and precise, cutting straight to the heart of her desperation. It left her speechless. Her carefully constructed wall of defiance crumbled.

She gripped her water glass, the condensation cold against her fingertips. "What do you want?"

"My family's requirement is that I get married this year," he said. "So here's my idea: if you're as tired of this circus as I am, we could solve each other's problem. Get the paperwork done. Satisfy both families. And then go our separate ways-no interference, no obligations. You live your life, I live mine."

His long fingers drummed against the tabletop, a slow, steady rhythm, as he waited for her answer.

Alexa fell silent.

In her mind, an image formed-sharp, seductive, and impossibly appealing.

No more of her mother's relentless nagging. No more pitying looks from colleagues who thought something must be wrong with her. No more family dinners where she had to sit through lectures about her biological clock.

Freedom. Real, structural freedom.

Her jaw tightened.

"I'll think about it. Give me three days."

He reached into his pocket again and produced a business card. It was thick, expensive cardstock, with a name and a number embossed in simple, elegant font. Donovan Beasley.

He slid it across the table. The sharp edge of the card pricked her fingertip as she took it, a tiny, stinging pain.

"You have thirty-six hours," he said. The words weren't a suggestion. They were a command. The pressure was immense, a physical weight settling on her shoulders. She bit down on her lower lip, hard.

They stood to leave. He deliberately fell half a step behind her, and she could feel his gaze on her back, an intense, possessive stare that seemed to trace the outline of her body through her coat.

At the entrance, the doorman opened the heavy brass doors. A blast of cold, damp air rushed in. Donovan moved, positioning his body to block the worst of the wind from hitting her. The small, unexpected gesture of courtesy threw her off balance.

A valet pulled up in a sleek, black SUV. Donovan opened the passenger door, then turned and simply looked at her, waiting.

Clutching the sharp-edged card in her hand, Alexa gave a stiff, formal nod. "Goodnight, Mr. Beasley."

She turned and walked away from him, into the rain, her back straight and her steps determined, refusing to let him see how much his proposal had shaken her.

Donovan watched her go before getting into his car. He didn't start the engine. He just sat there, the windshield wipers sweeping back and forth, tracking the lonely figure of a woman in a trench coat hailing a yellow cab in the pouring Manhattan rain.

Inside the taxi, the city lights smeared into watercolor streaks on the wet window. Alexa stared at the gold lettering on the business card. Donovan Beasley. The name felt heavy, dangerous. His offer replayed in her mind, a relentless loop of risk and reward.

The cab screeched to a halt at a red light, jolting her forward. In that moment of sudden, jarring stillness, the decision solidified. She wasn't just drowning. She was suffocating. And he had just thrown her the only lifeline in sight.

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