Chapter 1

Drown me in a moat, please. I’d like to see a castle before I die.

– Marcella

Finnegan Marsh—AKA the bane of my existence, my boss, and a man whose only true merit is…just about everything about him—beams at me when I enter his office for our usual morning meeting. The only issue is: he prefaced today’s meeting with a text that said he had something important he wanted to discuss. I’m growing all too familiar with how he operates, so I can confirm this morning’s text is bad news. It’s the Never mind! Everything you’ve expected today is in the toilet. Flush. Now, we’re going to Europe! text, which could so easily be translated into a Better to drive off a bridge than come into work text.

It’s a shame I’ve never been one to trust translations.

Blue eyes sparkling like fancy smancy champagne flutes, Mr. Marsh stands and presents the creaking leather chair in front of his obnoxiously large desk. The action strikes me as odd. Normally I just linger near enough to the door to judge the fact he has a koi pond in his floor and far enough from the door to bolt out of the way without winding up in the koi pond when he charges on by so we can pack.

I do not want to sit in the plasticky loud chair, but I do. I also do not want to smile, but I didn’t spend many hours in my formative years practicing how to exude perfect calm and peace in the mirror for nothing, so tralala. I love being up at five every day in order to be at this frivolous man’s beck and call.

It’s my favorite .

Sure, being at his beck and call is—quite literally—the job I signed up for, and Marsh Industries pays me eighty grand a year to do it, but it’s a human right to complain about one’s employment, and I do enjoy pretending to be human.

Smile flawless, I say, “You wanted to speak with me about something important that has the potential to derail today’s plans, Mr. Marsh?”

“How many times have I told you it’s okay to call me Finn , Marcella?”

I hum and tilt my soulmate—the LeoPad tablet from Leopard Co. that I use to track literally everything Mr. Marsh does—away from my body. “Not sure, sir.” My voice is light, airy, sweet and musical . I take immense inspiration from my beautiful friend Penny, who was a siren in another life. “Happy to find out for you, though. Would you like me to start keeping a tally now then draw up an estimate in a month that takes the past two months into consideration based on the statistics I learn?”

The corner of his mouth tugs into an effortlessly handsome smile as he scoots into his desk, plants his chin in his palm, and…scans me.

Mr. Marsh is a lot of things. Flippant. Boisterous. Impulsive. Much too… smiley . Way too nice . But he’s absolutely not a creep. Or, at least, he hasn’t been a creep for the past two months.

Perhaps I haven’t been working here long enough to tell for sure.

Prior to this position, I have several years of assistant experience that inform me the cliché about secretaries and their bosses…is rooted in the truth.

My perfectly practiced smile falters. “Mr. Marsh, why are you looking at me like that?”

Eyes widening, Mr. Marsh laughs, runs his fingers through the gleaming auburn strands of his hair, and says, “Sorry. You’re beautiful, Marcella. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.”

I blink.

His words repeat in my skull.

My trained smile vanishes, one tiny tilt at a time.

Suddenly, I’m wearing my normal face in front of my boss, which is something I only do when I’m positive nobody important is watching. And when you’re the personal assistant to the billionaire CEO of Marsh Industries, somebody important is always watching.

Swears hiss into my head, and I remind myself that overreacting is for wusses who don’t like to pay their overwhelming debts. Channeling unease that bridges on disgust , I shift in the uncomfortable, crisp leather seat. “I’m very uninterested in anything my physical appeal might assist you with, Mr. Marsh. If this sort of topic comes up again, I will have to resign.”

Without severance. As in, I will be suing for several million.

And probably losing since I can’t afford a several-million dollar lawyer…

But, you know, delusion is a grand pastime of mine.

Mr. Marsh’s brows rise.

I regain my peachy smile. “I don’t mean to be harsh. I’m only here to do my job. I’m sure you understand. I didn’t sign up for…anything else.”

“I don’t mean…” He cups a hand to his mouth, laughs into it. “Well, let me see if I can explain in a better way…” Before I get the chance to panic, he turns his attention toward his computer. “Ah. Here we go.” The fine lines around his eyes crinkle when his smile returns in full.

Whenever I see wrinkles on his face, I remember he’s thirty-two, not seven.

Even though he has the attention span of a rodent and I’m little more than his glorified nanny, he is a full-grown adult.

Even though I usher questions his way to keep him on task, put away all the emails he leaves out, make sure he eats, do all his planning, and dress him, sitting right in front of me is an entire adult man.

Coordinating someone’s outfits to match the weather is not exactly what I thought would wind up on my schedule after I graduated from four years of business school.

Alas.

“Marcella Reina Keyes,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip as he peruses the text on his screen. The idea of a laugh puffs from his nose as he cuts a glance my way. “I did a thing.”

My eyes close, briefly, and I do my very best not to sob.

Anytime Mr. Marsh does a thing , I need to readjust his plans, make new orders, cancel and confirm reservations, update his wardrobe for whatever climate he’s decided we’re ending up in. The entire ordeal involves usually twenty emails and thirty phone calls, all of which often occur on a private jet. Because, what do you know , he’s planned a business deal in Nepal .

I’ve been here for two months.

I have seen more of the world than I have ever wanted to.

Whatever the opposite of wanderlust is—that’s what I have.

Stay home lust. Leave me alone lust. For why lust.

If not for that glorious, glorious salary, I would not still be here.

The only reason I chose assistant as my career path at all is because it’s a position of planning and telling people what to do . I excel at both those things. It’s just that…well…my excellence may vary where the most frustrating man in the world is concerned.

“Are you all right, Marcella?” he asks.

I swallow, hard, and open my eyes. Voice still pitched in my customer service tone, I say, “Of course. What have you done?” This time . What have you done this time that requires me to rip up everything in your calendar, you soulless ginger?

His fingers lock in front of his pouting lips, and there’s almost a kind emotion in his eyes before they go chihuahua empty-bright once more. “I made an advertisement ,” he says, as though he has learned a new word.

I’d be proud of him.

If I cared.

“Incredible, sir.” I look at my tablet again. “Should I get marketing involved? Send data somewhere for analyzation? Take—”

“For a wife.”

My mind goes blank.

Achingly slow, I lift my attention off the tablet before me, meet Mr. Marsh’s strikingly amused gaze, and barely whisper, “What?”

“I made an advertisement for a wife. Wanted: Billionaire Housewife before Christmas. Ring any bells?”

No. Not exactly. If I had to identify the sound going off in my head right about now, it’s more like a siren. My mouth has gone utterly dry. Two weeks ago, on my birthday, I got a little drunk and a little click happy with a stupid ad.

A very, very stupid, blindingly bright ad…

“Why…” I attempt to moisten my lips. “…didn’t you tell me about this?”

“You had the day off. I got bored, and I was unsupervised…” He toys with a pen, and if he picks it up and starts clicking it , I will kill myself.

I wish I could say I’m surprised he got bored and started advertising for a wife . I’m just not. This man’s boredom is the consistent fuel behind this entire industry’s success. There’s always a new deal to make, a new avenue to try, a new company to grow into the multi-millions.

I don’t have to like the chaos to know it works.

After all, his chaos this time roped me in, didn’t it?

Maybe I’m overreacting.

After all, where would the Finnegan Marsh get the time to sort through the hundreds of applications he no doubt got? This world is full of desperate idiots.

I just usually enjoy pretending I’m not one of them.

Being worried he knows I’m in the mess of applications shouldn’t cloud my logic. I have to be overreacting.

I mean.

Okay.

Sure , he called me by my full name a few moments ago, but it has been two weeks since I filled out his form. Two weeks of applications is too many for a busy billionaire to handle. Not only that, the application ended on a question that said his assistant would be in touch.

I felt bad for that assistant.

Oh, the irony.

The full name thing was a coincidence. He just wants me to compile the shortlist.

Yup.

We will be adamantly ignoring the fact he opened this conversation with a compliment about my appearance.

Denial, another fond pastime. Snuggles right up next to delusion. I am a fan of the alliteration.

“So,” I begin, the pinnacle of calm, “you’d like me to review applications? Is there any deeper purpose to this endeavor? Any deadline I should take into consideration? Will you lose a trust fund if you aren’t married by a certain date?”

He stops messing with his pen and chuckles. “This isn’t a romcom, Marcella.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I’m just lonely.”

Yet again, my poor brain skids to a halt and takes a moment to reboot. He’s…lonely?

Him.

Seriously?

Him?

He’s surrounded by people constantly, dragging me halfway across the world for dinners and overnight events and parties. He knows people . Point blank. He knows people from here, there, and everywhere. Worse, people know him . He’s old money. Sole heir to a rich family heritage. He can’t go anywhere without a couple bodyguards tailing him.

If he wants a wife because he’s lonely , he has so many options it is laughable.

Why make a rush-deal form and advertise it at all?

“You seem shocked,” he murmurs. “I’m not allowed to be lonely?”

Looking like a statue of Apollo? Um. No, I don’t think so.

He’s the complete package. For most people.

I prefer far more stability from the personalities I allow around me.

Nevertheless, I say, “Of course you’re allowed to be lonely, Mr. Marsh. Do you have any criteria for me to cross-reference as I go through applications?”

“No.” Pushing back in his chair, he opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a stack of papers regardless. “I suppose I haven’t been perfectly clear. I’ve already gone through the applications.”

My entire life flashes before my eyes. My heart jumps up my esophagus to lodge in my throat. Oh well. A living wage was nice, while it lasted. Seeing the end of my crippling debt on the horizon…give or take twenty years with a working AC unit, or nineteen without one…

What grand dreams.

“Marcella?”

Frail, I say, “Yes, sir?”

“Were you held at gunpoint when you waded through all two hundred questions? Right now, you seem somewhat…apprehensive.”

My eyes close. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

Goodness gravy. I do wonder if it has anything to do with all the crap I said about you in those two hundred answers. My apprehension is a real, real, sincere, complete mystery.

I force down a swallow. “My apologies. No, sir. I wasn’t held at gunpoint.”

“So you answered the form of your own free will?”

“I was drunk.” Something inside me is dying. If I survive the rest of this conversation, it’s going to take months for the scent to leave the crevices of my soul.

Mr. Marsh clicks his tongue. “I see. So it’s safe to say you were more yourself than usual?”

I resent him.

So much.

Circling a fingertip atop the stack of papers he removed from the drawer, Mr. Marsh rests his mouth against his fist and peers at the computer screen. “I know I ran the ad on an account disconnected from Marsh Industries and maintained a level of anonymity, but I still thought perhaps you knew when I saw your name. Then I started reading your responses, and I thought perhaps you’d found a sense of humor when so many replies ridiculed your boss and bemoaned your position. But while they weren’t all insulting, they were all detailed…” He moves his hand to his mouse and scrolls. “Insightful and earnest…” His expression softens, tender. “It was hard to believe it was a joke after a while. I suppose all I can say now is you hide how much you hate me very well.”

I droop against the terrible fabric of this stupid, stupid, stupid chair. There’s no point in trying to escape now. He has so much incriminating evidence sitting right in front of him. I am doomed. “It…takes a lot of effort.”

“I imagine it does. Are you aware that for the question asking what traits you value in a man, you preface a list delineating my exact opposites with anyone but Finnegan Marsh is honestly great ?”

My fingers close into the fabric of my pantsuit as I force myself not to fidget with the hem of my jacket. “Truthfully, the whole experience is somewhat blurry. I ate an entire cake on top of the wine.”

Blissful, he laughs, watching me like I am the strangest creature in the world. “At one point, as an addendum, you put I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I’m pretty sure I hate billionaires .”

I whimper. “If I’m fired, I can leave gracefully, Mr. Marsh. I’ll sign for severance, so you know I won’t sue.”

Cheerful, he fixes me with the most baffled expression in the world. Then he has the audacity to ask, “Are you mad? You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had, ever met . I’d be a fool to let you go. Also, given the libel you submitted to an unknown source, I’d have more grounds to sue than you would. Regardless, really, suing me is unwise. What would you even sue me for? Being too nice? ”

As a matter of fact, yes. Exactly that.

His positive attitude causes me consistent, undue emotional distress.

Chuckling, he regards me warmly. “Fire you.” His head shakes, auburn waves falling across his forehead before he pushes them back. “Silly girl. If I do that, who will hire our wedding planner?”

I shut down. I come back online. “Pardon?”

“You are exactly the kind of girl I want to marry. Every last one of your answers is riveting, capturing me completely. I’ll not get ahead of myself and suggest I’ve fallen in love with you, but I am desperate to get to know you better outside our professional setting as we make preparations for a ceremony at the end of November.”

Balking, I stammer, “I… I’m terribly sorry. I mean no disrespect. It’s just that you seem to be forgetting…I hate you?”

Smiling—like an idiot, might I add—he watches me, as though waiting for me to say something that matters.

I cover my mouth.

His smile tames, some, just enough to be disconcerting. “Am I misunderstanding? Did you or did you not apply to become an unknown billionaire’s wife? And am I or am I not a billionaire?”

What’s the corporate polite way to say, you are a lunatic ? “Husbands and wives…they…you know.”

He blinks. “Yes. Do you find my appearance as repulsive as my character? Personally, I consider you quite lovely in both respects.”

My stomach does a wee twist. “I am having a rather visceral reaction to what you just said.”

Without missing a beat, he pulls the small trashcan out from under his desk and passes it to me. “You did note that unexpected change could make you throw up. To be honest, I don’t consider love and romance as important as companionship, so don’t worry if you aren’t attracted to me. I won’t force you to do anything against your will.”

Aren’t attracted—

I’d have to be an amoeba not to recognize his physical appeal.

Like him, however, I also consider the emotional side to be of far more importance than anything physical . So. Yeah . That I hate his character is a gargantuan issue, I think.

My skin goes cold and clammy. My LeoPad slips out of my grasp, so I can cradle the offered trashcan in my arms. Is this biting sensation running down the back of my throat embarrassment? Dread? Vomit?

“You would have preferred marrying someone you didn’t know?” he asks.

“I was drunk , Mr. Marsh. My options were mess around online or cry into my birthday cake. It was by no means a serious application. I think it would be for both our benefits if you neglected it entirely.”

Mr. Marsh clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand. You wrote a collective ten thousand words into an application you weren’t serious about?”

I scowl at him over my trashcan. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

A short laugh escapes him. “You are enchanting.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Please consider becoming my wife, Marcella. It’s not a bad deal, and I can’t help but keep coming back to the fact all your annoyances with me aren’t grounded in any negative behaviors.”

Um. Yeah. Because Mr. Marsh is a little sparkling sunshine fairy in a bottle. But I am a storm cloud. “I respectfully decline.”

“You mentioned having an awful lot of debt in one of the money questions I included.”

I wince. “That sounds like the start of blackmail. Should I be recording this?”

He shrugs his broad shoulders, leans back, and twists side to side in his chair. “You may, if you’d like. However, legally, against me, you don’t have a prayer.”

He has a point. And it’s sharp.

“I promise I’m not trying to blackmail you. It’s just… Is being in my presence really as terrible as you’ve made it out to be?” he murmurs. “Just because I smile too often and am too energetic?”

My eyes narrow.

“You can tell me the truth. Your honest feelings don’t bother me, and I think we’re well past your good assistant act. I’ve never seen you be particularly energetic, but do you always fake your smiles?”

“When I’m on the clock, yes.”

“Ouch.”

“Everything about you makes me uncomfortable.”

All joy melts out of him. “I deeply apologize. I always try to respect my employees and give no reason for my life to be used as the general public’s entertainment. Despite that, we do find ourselves in close quarters often. If I’ve done anything—”

My eyes roll. “I’m not talking about that . I’m talking about right now . You’re so…sickeningly sincere. With everyone . You tip. Always. Really well. At fast food restaurants. When there’s terrible service. It doesn’t matter. You’re just kind to everyone. And another thing , I’ve never entered a building behind you because you always open the door for me. When we split off on trips, you send one of your bodyguards with me to make sure I get to my room safe. The constant overbearing joy that leaks out of your pores is like a virus infecting everyone around you. You treat everyone with grace. You, as a person, barely seem real. But then add in your overflowing energy and childlike wonder?” Scoffing, I toss a hand at him. “You’re thirty-two , Mr. Marsh. Why are you always moving? How are you always moving? Are you hooked up to caffeine twenty-four-seven?”

He stops twisting his chair.

“Is tired a state of being you even understand? Because the rest of us happen to exist in it. Perpetually.” I huff, compose myself, make sure I’m maintaining my customer service voice. “All this to say, it’s really not you. I’m just easily frustrated. I like when things make sense. And you don’t. No one’s supposed to be rich, handsome, and kind with no medical issues to speak of. The least you could do is have a mild case of asthma. Come on. ”

“You’re upset that I’m…too perfect?”

I scoff. Again. “I’m upset because it’s my character. I’m upset because you carry yourself with the innocence of an idiot, but everything works out for you anyway. You’re smart and respected even when you don’t act like it. You work hard, but you don’t have to work hard for much. I run on logic. You’re fueled by emotion. We clash. And I pretend we don’t because you pay well and I don’t feel unsafe around you like I have at other assistant jobs.” Heaving a sigh, I sweep my fingers through my short dark hair. “Can we please just pretend none of this happened?”

His gaze slips toward his computer screen, then down to the stack of papers in front of him. His fingers flex, and he shifts in his seat. “I’d…rather not.”

“So I’m resigning?”

He lifts the stack of papers, offering it to me. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“What’s this?”

“My answers. To the form. And the list of questions I decided not to include. It’s what you asked about for question 199. I didn’t force myself to reach two hundred. I cut down from three-fourteen because I thought it was too long. Perhaps it wasn’t actually long enough. After a single night, the form garnered hundreds of responses. Most of them useless. I came upon yours yesterday, and it struck me like none of the others had, so I’ve been preparing to confront you all night.”

All night , he says. As though anyone who hasn’t slept is allowed to look like him. He doesn’t even have dark circles under his eyes. Without makeup, my bags could carry Saint Bernards.

“Consider it, please,” he says. “Date me for a few months, then answer a yes or no question. If you still hate me too much to go through with marrying me, I won’t force you. But if you humor me during this probationary period, I’ll give you a Christmas bonus that covers your debt.”

I go rigid, staring at him.

“In spite of my legal immunity, I’m happy to put that in writing if it would give you some security. I am also happy to issue a down payment constituting half of what you need to pay off your debts as I suspect having the cash in your account would provide further comfort.”

He can’t be serious. There has to be a catch. There’s no way my answers to his questions warranted this kind of response. I’m missing the angle. The second I agree, he’ll make my life terrible. He has to be interested in getting even. Humiliating me. Using me. Something .

Except, of course, that’s what I’d do in his position. And we are very much night and day.

“Marcella…” he begins softly, “…you say we clash, but one of us spent hours tediously constructing a form in hopes of finding someone to spend their life with. The other spent hours filling it out. Genuinely. Whether you were passing the time or not, whether you were drunk or not, you can’t tell me there wasn’t any sincerity or thought put into your answers. You challenged every question from every direction, and it was stunning to behold.” He moves the pages closer, urging me to grasp them. “In many ways, I think we’re alike. Let me know what you think after you read my answers.”

Hesitant, I take the stack. “Being somehow compatible on paper doesn’t mean you don’t completely annoy me in real life.”

“Just consider it. Unless you were planning to quit on me before December, what do you have to lose?”

My dignity.

But wait.

I’m still hugging a trashcan, so I guess that ship has already sailed…