Chapter 16

Pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Marsh Industries.

– Finnegan

“No.”

I sigh, holding the pad and pen out as Marcella, a notary, and I bump along in the back of a hay-filled trailer. “Please?”

Her angry eyes jet my way. Arms crossed, she huffs. “Absolutely not. Also, for the record, who does this ?”

“Does what?”

Marcella tosses a hand toward Margo, the notary, who is patiently waiting with her stamp to confirm Marcella’s signature. Then she sweeps her arms to reference the entirety of the hay ride I organized for us to go on after work today.

“I told you I wanted to go on a hay ride.” I click the pen shut, then open, then shut.

Marcella’s pretty brown eyes narrow into slits. “You know something, Marshi?”

I stop clicking for a moment. “It takes you five business days to work up the nerve to call me by my first name just once?”

Her arms snap back together, impertinent. “You are an incurable tease.”

“Glad you noticed. Now.” I tilt the pen toward her. “One signature gets you on. One signature gets you off. There’s no risk to you, and it will help me to no longer need to confirm purchases or transfer funds into the executive assistant account while you plan our wedding. If it weren’t so easily reversed, I’d accept your wishes. But, for all intents and purposes, it is painless, and leveling the field between us going forward is important to me.”

“You are insane if you think I won’t go mad with power the second I have access to all your money.”

“I truly hope you do go mad with power. I’m awful at redistributing the wealth to the working-class since most of my purchases are from business-related corporations or fall to large-scale charity organizations.”

Marcella angles herself away from me. “What if I mess up and cause the collapse of Marsh Industries?”

“Then you are more skilled than I thought. No single purchase could come close to toppling the empire. Not even if the single purchase is a several-million dollar home.”

“What about several several-million dollar homes? I might lose my mind and buy vacation spots in half a dozen countries. How much does an island cost? What about developing it? How much will it cost to build a tiny hobbit hole island paradise with carrot fields and wild pet rabbits whose only cage is the surrounding ocean?” Her fingers dig into her bicep. “This started as an exaggeration, but now I will need the cost estimates and a list of available islands.”

I sigh. “My grandfather already bought an island before he died. I haven’t even been there, so you’re welcome to develop it and fill it with pet rabbits as it suits you. Rabbits aren’t expensive and neither is building a modest hobbit home.”

Her head whips my way. “You are—” She swears. “—joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?”

Wary, she looks between my face and the pen I’m clicking. “What’s my monthly budget? At least give me a monthly budget.”

“No. No monthly budget.”

“I need something to ease my you’re going to mess up and ruin everything anxiety. I’m not a proper rich person. I will be scrolling through Instagram, ordering anything cute I see, randomly donating to Kickstarters, buying up my entire Steam wish list in preparation for when Stardew Valley removes its claws from my jugular, and I need other farming sims.” She slaps a hand to her mouth. “I’ll need to buy a gaming computer .”

“You will. You also need to decorate your home so it’s less like a generic magazine and more… you .”

Her chin lifts, adorably arrogant. “I’ll get rid of all the beds.”

“Please also stop sleeping on the couch. Honestly, your aversion to change is commendable, but I fear for thirty-year-old you’s back.”

“You are making an awful lot of demands this fine evening, Finn .”

I bite my lip to mute my smile. The way she said it sounded like a curse, but this is the second time she’s said my name. It fills me with such incomprehensible joy.

An idea hits me. “Actually.”

She tenses.

“You do have a budget. I expect no less than half a million dollars to be spent every month.”

“ What? How do you expect me to spend half a million dollars every month? That’s six million dollars a year! I’ve never even seen a hundred thousand in the flesh. I save butter containers to use for my leftovers!”

I watch her.

Something in her seems to connect the dots. Clearing her throat, she adjusts her position. “I’m starting to see where I’m less than a concern…”

“Mm, yeah.” I push the papers toward her and tap the pen against them. “It really is good to put money into the kinds of places you want to support, pumpkin. It helps the economy. And not having extra wedding-related purchases to confirm frees up my time. No longer needing to send funds to the exec card does, too. Financially securing you against me is just one of the many pros to this move. It’s important to me that you have that stability as you transition into truly considering having me as your partner.”

She drinks down a deep breath and scowls. “Ugh.” Snatching the pen, she calls to the driver, “Stop the tractor. I don’t want my signature to be bumpy.”

Sitting in the middle of an overgrown field on bales of hay, I watch Marcella sign herself into my world. The sunset rays caress the black ink as she finishes every initial and date before passing the sheets to Margo.

My heart rate picks up when she releases a breath, clenches her hands against her thighs, stretches her fingers, clenches them again. She whispers a curse, laser-focused on Margo as the woman signs, dates, and stamps the appropriate locations.

Margo briefly relays how my bank will set Marcella up with a username and password before issuing new cards for her while my poor girlfriend has a tiny, almost imperceptible breakdown. The only way I can tell she’s having a breakdown is because she’s started smiling and nodding politely.

Throughout the ride back to drop Margo off near her car with the paperwork so she can begin processing it, Marcella remains quiet—blank.

Once the tractor is taking us back out into the field beneath the twilight, she whispers, “I’m…rich.” She clutches a hand to her chest. “How do you live with the weight of this responsibility?”

“You get used to it.”

“I may require a lobotomy for that.” Starkly horrified, she turns her face toward me. “And guess what? I can now afford it .”

“Realizing I’m powerless to stop you is an odd sensation. I wonder if physical apprehension might be sufficient.”

A deep, villainous laugh starts deep in her chest. She steeples her fingers together, tapping them in tandem. “I must use this power for evil .” She stops herself, drops her hands, and corrects the mischief in her expression. Fixing me with a glare, she says, “See? I’m already going insane . What have you done?”

It takes everything in me to keep my laughter in check. “Could you describe what you mean by evil ? Please? I am painfully curious.”

“I don’t have to tell you nothing . I can quit my job, find your island, and begin construction of my hobbit home. This is it.” Her gaze drifts heavenward, and her brown eyes glitter in the stardust. “I’ve completed the main storyline. I’ve unlocked Ginger Island. I have the funds to repair the boat in the back of Willy’s shop. I’ll buy the supplies from Robin directly. I don’t even have to gather them.”

“I hardly have a clue what you’re saying.”

She flaps a hand at me. “ Stardew Valley . You’re still too early game to understand. And we really should remedy that.” She gasps, again, eyes so wide I’m worried she’ll hurt herself. “Once I have a card, I should take you out.”

My face heats. “What?”

“On a date. To celebrate my richness. Stealing the bill when the waiter hands it to you sounds very fun.”

My lips part.

She arches a brow. “What? Did you think I meant I was hiring an assassin?” All blood rushes from her cheeks. “I can afford an assassin.” She grasps aimlessly at the hem of my long-sleeve shirt. “I…think I need to lie down.”

Without warning, her head hits my lap, and I choke on my heart when it lodges itself in my throat.

Vaguely unfocused, Marcella stares at the sky. Distantly breathy, she whispers, “Finn?”

I speak around the beat in my esophagus. “Yes?”

“Do you know any good assassins?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Why wasn’t that answer a no ?”

Oops. Right. “No, sorry. I don’t know any assassins. I can’t say I’ve ever ordered a hit on anyone.”

“Well, that’s boring.” Her lip juts.

She’s…precious.

My hand lifts, but she snaps, “Touch my hair and die. Literally . I will hire people to find me an assassin and then I will hire that assassin.”

I dig my fingers into the hay at my side.

Her eyes close.

I lose all sense of self, watching her.

A shallow sigh slips from her lips before she murmurs, “I’m still getting my bread off the discount cart. Walmart doesn’t need your money.”

“True, but a small local bakery might. Just imagine. Fresh in-date bread.”

“I resent every word you just said.”

I bury my hand deeper in the hay, let it prick my palm. “Sorry.”

“Mostly on account of your correctness. I’m rich now. I get to be pretentious and shop at farmer’s markets. What will I do with my love of bread cart now?”

“I don’t…think shopping at a farmer’s market is pretentious.”

“Whole Foods? Earthfare? Fresh Market?”

I let my tongue roam my cheek. “All perfectly normal locations that regular people often shop. They could not be supported on rich people alone.”

“I’ve got it. A private health food co-op. Where you need a membership card to enter the building and old ladies provide unsolicited information about how honey isn’t vegan, so they only ever use agave nectar , while you search for your almond flour and sesame snacks.”

“Pumpkin.”

Her eyes open to find mine.

“You’re my assistant. You know where a billionaire shops. You do my shopping for me.”

She blinks. “Oh. Right. You have me order through Marsh Delivers Fresh. You narcissist.”

“Back when my father launched the grocery delivery service, I wanted to name it MarshMallow.”

She snorts. “How dare he crush your creativity.”

“Indeed. My genius has been squandered since my youth. It would have had a little logo with the double M’s, which is the sound you make when something is delicious.”

Another laugh escapes her. “You’re so…” She sighs and turns her attention back to the sky. After several moments, she says, “Don’t stare at me.”

“Sorry.” I also tilt my head to take in the sky. Out here, far enough from the city lights, the sky is a tapestry of glittering jewels that sprawl on and on into places money can’t hope to afford.

Not looking makes the weight of Marcella’s head in my lap far more present. With every bump and shift, I find it harder to breathe.

“MarshMallow,” she whispers into the growing darkness. “That should have been your Stardew name.”

“It carries too many bitter memories.”

“Is that a joke, or should I apologize?”

“It’s a joke.”

The most palpably dry and forced chain of laughs ever leaves her. “Your dreams were crushed. So funny.”

Her sarcastic laughter shouldn’t be able to incite something real. Unfortunately, it does, and I cave a little bit over her, unable to restrain myself.

“Hey,” she protests. “That sunshine is blocking out my night sky.” She pokes me in the nose. “Where’s the dimmer on this thing?”

I catch her hand before she can stab me with her nail again. Despite the calm of this moment, a hay ride isn’t the most smooth, and I’m not eager to lose an eye.

“Finn?” she says when I’ve gone too still, perhaps when I’ve drifted too close, certainly moments after I’ve begun thinking of the technical difficulties involved when it comes to kissing her in this sort of position. My stomach flutters at the sound of my name on her lips. Again.

It’s the fourth time.

I’m almost certain I’ll lose my entire soul come the fifth.

“Yes?” It takes everything to keep breath entering my lungs.

“Would you like to go home and play Stardew Valley with the girls?”

I smile and try not to mourn the loss when she pulls her hand free. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Except, perhaps, marrying you.