deal?

The "miracle" Lilia had been praying for arrived in the form of a giant, inflatable hot dog.

Lilia was currently sweating inside the polyester casing of "Frankie the Frankfurter," the mascot for a struggling local diner. She was working three jobs to save her grandmother’s restaurant , and today’s gig involved waving a plastic mustard bottle at cars in a rain-slicked parking lot.

Sion Wagner, meanwhile, was having the worst morning of his professional life. His car had broken down, his assistant had quit via voice note, and he was currently power-walking toward a high-stakes board meeting, looking every bit the cold, billionaire shark in a three-thousand-dollar suit.

He was also staring at his phone, furiously typing an email, which is why he didn't see the patch of black ice near the diner’s entrance.

Lilia, hindered by the giant foam head of Frankie, saw him stumble. She lunged forward to help, but mascot shoes are essentially oversized loaves of bread. Instead of catching him, she tripped over her own foam feet.

With a muffled "Oof!" five feet of processed-meat costume slammed into the CEO of Wagner Enterprises.

Sion didn't just fall; he was tackled. He went down hard, his face landing squarely against Frankie’s oversized, painted-on smile. Lilia landed on top of him with a squeak of compressed foam, her plastic mustard bottle flying out of her hand and exploding across Sion’s pristine white shirt.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the rain and the distant honk of a car.

Lilia scrambled to sit up, which was difficult because her costume was top-heavy. "Oh my god! I am so sorry! Are you okay? Are you alive?" her voice echoed from deep inside the hot dog’s throat.

Sion lay on his back, staring up at the grey sky, his chest covered in neon-yellow mustard. He looked like a crime scene in a deli. He slowly turned his head to look at the giant foam face hovering over him.

"You," Sion rasped, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage, "are a hot dog."

"I’m a frankfurter," Lilia corrected reflexively, then winced. "Wait, no, I’m a person. Let me help you."

She tried to grab his hand, but her mascot gloves were giant four-fingered mittens. She ended up just batting at his arm like a confused seal.

Sion sat up, wiping a glob of mustard off his cheek with a trembling finger. He looked at his ruined suit, then at his shattered phone, then back at the girl trapped in the meat suit. He should have been screaming. He should have been calling his lawyers.

But then he remembered the board meeting. He remembered his father’s ultimatum: Show us you have a sense of humor, Sion. Show us you’re relatable. Get a life, or lose the company.

He looked at Lilia, who had finally managed to pull off the giant foam head, revealing messy curls and a face flushed with genuine horror.

"How much do you make an hour being a snack?" Sion asked abruptly.

Lilia blinked, clutching her giant head. "Twelve dollars? Why?"

Sion stood up, ignoring the yellow stain on his heart. "I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars if you tell the press we’re engaged and that this—" he gestured to the mustard and the foam "—was a 'meet-cute' gone wrong."

Lilia stared at him. "You want to marry a hot dog?"

"I want to save my company," Sion said, his eyes narrowing. "And you look like you need a dry cleaner. Do we have a deal?"