Chapter 9

I should have pushed you down the stairs.

– Marcella

He’s… lingering .

There are approximately seventeen million bags of extravagant clothes in the castle room I have claimed as my own. They drown out my little lump of Walmart bag familiarity quite considerably, and I am not looking forward to sorting through them. I’m already drowning in a puddle of foreign luxuries.

The only reason I’m not sobbing and puking is because—sweet baby of air condition—there are vents . In the ceilings . And multiple thermostats. Including one in the room I picked.

It is literally the only reason I picked the room I did last night. I stomped right through this extravagant mansion, stopped at the first room I found with a thermostat in it, and dumped my stuff on the bed before curling up on the couch that also happened to be in the room I picked.

Holding back laughter, F-man pulled a soft throw down over me, ignored when I hissed at him, and told me to sleep well.

Crossing my arms, I lean against the locked side of the front double doors and arch a brow. “What is happening right now?”

F-man smiles—but of course he does. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he convinced me that it was absolutely girlfriend behavior to show him every outfit I tried on, as long as it fit and I didn’t hate it with every ounce of blood in my body. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I said goodbye . Go back to your little limo and your little bodyguards. This is my house now. This was a first date. I don’t partake of intimacies without more commitment, so if you’re waiting around for a goodnight kiss, I’m going to slam the door in your face and tell my dear sweet Penny that you’ve assaulted me. Nothing burns worse than her scathing disapproval. Her lips pinch, and she does this thing.” I try to imperceptibly shake my head a mere half inch either direction, then I groan and sag. “I can’t do it right, but, trust me, it destroys self-esteem.”

“I’m not waiting for a kiss.”

“Oh. Excellent.” I delay a moment. “Am I unaware of some other ritual that would breach my contract of act like a girlfriend ?”

He braces his arm against the door, leaning in too close while his other hand dances taps against his thigh. “I can’t help but notice…you haven’t said my name this entire day.”

Dread hits the pool of derision in my gut. “Guess it hasn’t come up.”

“Why don’t you try a goodnight, Finn on for size?”

A swallow sticks in my throat. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Are you still calling me Mr. Marsh in your head? Or perhaps you’ve never thought of me as Mr. Marsh. I’ll accept whatever insulting moniker you’ve blessed me with as a nickname.”

I will throw myself down the front steps and die before I tell him I’ve been calling him F-man in my head for the past day. “Sorry. In full recognition of the fact my hatred is largely uncalled for, I have maintained mental respect for you as my boss. You have not warranted any clever code names amongst my friends. And, truly, I do my best not to think about you at all.”

He rests his head against his arm. “That makes me sad. It’s like you’re saying I’ve been of such little consequence, I’m not worth a speck of energy beyond what you are obligated to provide.”

I suck my teeth and avert my eyes.

“Ow.”

“What can I say? I’m a big fan of separating the professional and the personal…”

“You don’t have the kind of job that allows such a thing. I have called you at two in the morning and told you we’re flying to Japan in an hour.”

I stretch my lips into a smile. “I know, and I still haven’t forgiven you.”

“I bought you a lunch shaped like a cat to apologize for the inconvenience.”

“It took every last bit of my acting skills to gracefully behead that cat without letting on that the ketchup placement was fully intentional.”

Bathed in dusky shadows, he chuckles. His hand—edged in moonlight—lifts, and I tense as it draws near. “Sorry,” he murmurs, inches from my face. “May I cup your cheek?”

“I don’t foresee enjoying that.”

His fingers close, but his hand doesn’t lower. “You aren’t actually all that affectionate, are you?”

“I’m really not. I have been known to hit children who touch me unexpectedly.” I grimace, too aware that his hand is still hovering. “Listen. We’re really different people. I can’t be whatever it is you’re looking for even if my answers to your form questions amused or impressed you. On paper, we’re both smart enough to seem complementary, but I’m not going to be whatever you need to fill whatever you’re trying to inside. If you need comfort to feel loved, if you need expressions of touch or romantic words, that’s not how I operate.”

“How do you operate when you love someone? How do your friends know you love them?”

Static buzzes in my head. My gaze drifts off his face. I search the pristine stone porch at his feet. “I don’t… I don’t know. Brigid was the only person in my high school who didn’t annoy me. I approached her and asked if she had a vacancy for a friend. Later, Brigid found Penny, and I thought she was insane, because Penny has always been this bubbly monstrosity, but—” Swearing, I laugh. “—no. Brigid was right. Penny gets us.”

“Has it just been the three of you since?”

“Yeah. No one else liked us much. Well, okay. Boys liked Penny, but no one else liked us, and we didn’t like them, so we didn’t let them touch her.”

“Interesting…” His attention slips over my every inch. “And you don’t know how you love them even though you clearly adore them with everything in you?”

Eyes rolling skyward, I free an irritated sigh. “I’ve never thought about it before. I guess… maybe …when I love someone, I try to fulfill their needs. Whatever that may be in the moment. I just want them to be happy, so I try to become the pieces they’re missing from their happiness.”

“That’s beautiful, Marcella.”

“Shut up. What are you even still doing here?”

His head shakes. “I’m waiting for my goodnight, Finn .”

My lip curls. “Are you sure you sent your order to the right location?”

He settles himself in a little deeper, as though preparing to stay here all night. “Pretty positive. Why don’t you like my name?”

“I don’t dislike your name. Do I think it’s stupid? Sure. A little bit. It has too many letters.”

“Our names have the same number of letters.”

“Too many syllables then,” I mutter.

He tilts his face a fraction closer, whispering, “I have some bad news, Mar-cel-la.”

“Ugh!” I snap. “It’s just too intimate to call you by your first name, okay? It changes everything about how I compartmentalize our relationship in my head, and haven’t I had enough change for one week?”

His nod…it’s almost amicable…almost understanding. Unfortunately, he then opens his mouth. “So what you’re saying is you would address your boyfriend by his last name or not at all? If so, I’ll accept it. However, if not, I think your aversion might be a breach of contract.”

“ This is why I wanted the terms of our contract laid out more clearly, so you couldn’t pull this kind of crap .”

“Marcella. I’m not pulling anything. If you tell me this is how you’d treat your boyfriend, I’ll accept it and rescind my earlier request that you use my name or endearments. It was wrong of me to assume how you’d naturally act with your significant other in any respect.”

I have been on precious few romantic excursions—all of them disappointing—but never once did I call any of those chuckleheads by their last name with an honorific. “Once upon a time,” I mutter, “I graduated high school, and I had the devastating experience of meeting a teacher in a store the following summer. When I greeted her, I used Mrs. Blackwood . She said I could call her Helen now that I’d graduated. This is the first time I’ve ever said her name. It is also the last.” I lift my arm between us. “ Look . Goosebumps. I’ve broken a law of the universe.”

His hand moves, skimming across my raised hair, and I jerk. “Do not .”

Wincing, he pockets his hand. “Sorry. I understand. Change isn’t just painful for you. It’s uncomfortable and disturbing. May I present my point of view?”

“If you must.”

“Mrs. Blackwood is the title you used when Helen was your teacher. It’s how you associate her in your head as your teacher. Associating her with Helen removes the weight of her role. You aren’t willing to let that go because to you it’s not correct to change that history or alter your relationship now. Just because you graduated doesn’t mean she earned the closeness you associate with removing her title.” He wets his lips. “I am very serious about marrying you, Marcella. I understand your reservations and your concerns where our characters appear to collide; however, in your eyes, have I not paid a lot of money for a chance? In your eyes, is it right for you to intentionally distance us? To intentionally keep me in the purely business compartment of your brain, if that is what you’re subconsciously doing? Have I not earned the right to ask that you change how you consider our relationship?”

I hate him. I really hate him. But, again, he isn’t wrong . He has paid a lot of money for a chance to escape the business box in my skull. There’s just one important thing he’s entirely neglecting. “Mr. Marsh, you hold all the power in both our relationships. If you change your mind about me after I spend any time reprogramming mine where you’re concerned, I’ll be stuck with the emotional weight of undoing it all.”

“You’re afraid you’ll come to like me and I’ll lose interest?”

I don’t meet his eyes. “I’m too good at pretending. I don’t trust you enough to take the chance I’ll trick myself into finding you less annoying than I do just because you’re nice to me. If we’re treating this like a trial run relationship, I require the grace to keep my distance until I trust that you’re safe. In different ways, that’s how new relationships start—with caution, boundaries, and walls. You’ve paid for the chance to have conversations like these after spending a lot of off-the-clock time together, but money can’t earn you any rights where my emotions are concerned.”

“That is more than reasonable.”

I drag my attention up, wait for a but . It doesn’t come.

Instead, he says, “Is there anything I can do within the constraints of this trial that would help level the power discrepancy between us?”

“Short of making me a joint owner of your bank accounts and businesses, I think I’m kind of stuck. I’ll have to deal with being in a position where I have no actual legal or personal rights outside your moral code. The discrepancy comes down to money in the end. I can’t afford to protect myself. Thankfully, I don’t think you’re a bad person, but what do I really know about you? The biggest thing you have going for you so far is that very few people allow me this kind of consideration to explain myself without getting defensive. I appreciate when people are mature enough to talk to me until we can understand each other.” Clearing my throat, I lift my hand and awkwardly provide my…boyfriend…with a shoulder pat of appreciation. “Anyway. Good talk. Goodnight.”

I’m turning around when he says, “Okay.”

Something in his tone strikes me as odd, so I peer back at him.

Much too pensive and lenient, he bites his bottom lip and hums. “Setting you up with joint access and permissions now rather than later makes little difference to me. I’d provide nothing less for my wife. If having access to the ability to abuse my funds early on in our relationship makes you more comfortable, it is simple enough.”

My mouth drops open. “Are you insane?”

“I don’t think so. Can you put situating this into my schedule?”

I blurt, “ No . I don’t want to be on your accounts! We’ve only known each other for two months and change.”

“You are sending me extremely mixed messages, pumpkin.”

Stomping, I jab him in the chest with my finger. “I am not. You asked a question. I gave you the correct answer. Emotions were not involved previously because the correct answer is insane and something you shouldn’t even joke about considering. I could be a con-woman for all you know.”

Far too chill , he smiles down at my finger on his chest. “A con-woman. Playing the long game.”

“Not even. Long game would be dating and marrying you, then siphoning away your funds into a private account for ten years before either divorcing you or vanishing. It would be wearing too much makeup and batting my eyelashes to distract you when you mention prenups. It would be throwing a tantrum and saying you don’t love me if you insist. Two months is not a long game.”

“Should I be concerned at how much thought you’ve given this?”

I open my mouth to tell him I came up with everything I just rambled on the spot, but seeing as that doesn’t help my case, I snip, “Yes,” instead.

His smile tips a little too close to cocky for my liking. “You have given this absolutely zero thought, haven’t you?”

Removing my finger from his chest, I widen my stance and plant my hands at my hips. “My resentment of you grows with every passing moment.”

“I expect this task to be on my schedule within the week. As your boss, that’s an order.”

My spine straightens so sharply it curves backwards, a la reverse shrimp. “Oh. Oh, I see. You give your employees orders now? Do excuse my impertinence, m’lord.”

“ M’lord ,” he murmurs, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “That’s an interesting nickname to give me. It feels mildly suggestive, though. Are you comfortable with that?”

“I will put leeches in your pillowcase the next time I set up your clothes. Don’t test me.”

He splays his fingers.

I stare at them. “What is that?”

“Give me your left hand.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Will you go away if I do?”

“Reluctantly, yes.”

Groaning deeply, I let my head roll back as I place my hand in his.

The annoying sound of a jewelry case opening resonates in his pocket before he slips a stunning rose gold ring on my finger. The metal curls and twists, tiny leaf vines encircling a round-cut pale orange gem. At first glance, it’s beautiful. At second…it’s a pumpkin.

His grip solidifies when I attempt to rip my hand out of his.

“Let me go, you—”

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I already have. But start wearing this when you begin seriously considering saying yes .” He drops a kiss to my knuckles. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

My flesh absolutely crawls against the softness of his lips brushing me. “Yea, that the dread of seeing you hence may consume my blissful solitude.”

Freeing me with a laugh, he steps back. “I don’t want to go home.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s cold there.” He takes another step back, toward the stairs.

Half my attention fixates on the edge he’s blindly approaching. “Yes, a functioning air conditioning tends to do that to a place. I’m not amused by your bragging rights.”

Another step. “Without the contempt of your heated gaze, what could hope to keep me warm?”

“A bonfire.”

He slips.

I lunge forward just in time for his foot to plant on the stable platform of the next stair. In a cruel twist of fate, he catches me, leaving me staring speechless into his eyes.

Wordlessly, he ascertains that I’m stable on my feet, then he turns like he didn’t just do anything on purpose.

I watch him descend the rest of the steps, get into the backseat of his limo, and drive off the property. When he’s no longer in sight, I take myself to my room, adjust the thermostat so it’s freezing , and begin sorting through the bags on my floor.