Chapter 3

I regret this already.

– Marcella

Penny : AHHHHHHHHH. I HATE YOU.

I smile at my phone as Penny’s texts come in.

Penny : Please marry ME. Forget about your boss. You deserve the housewife, bb girl.

Penny : I cook. I clean. I provide ROCKS. Full pakidge, right here.

Making my way back inside after getting Mr. Marsh’s and my lunch from the delivery guy at the front of the building, I fit myself into a cramped elevator and watch a stream of images appear on my phone. Penny’s big green eyes and short curly blond hair make her look like a professional model—regardless of the fact she’s doing a romantic spoof with the Coca-cola cake I DoorDashed to her on company time.

Penny : Would it be weird if I start making out with this cake? It’s still warm. I’m sobbing. Why are you the best? Marsh needs to fall in love with you during these next few months, or else I’m throwing hands.

Adjusting my food bag, I reply:

Marcella : That’s not a good ending. I don’t want to turn down a simpering puppy dog guy who will then have to let me go on account of it being too difficult to work with me. I want one date to end with: “Wow, this was an expensive realization, oops, see you tomorrow with my coffee and schedule.”

Penny : But then you won’t get all your debt paid off.

Marcella : Fine. I want him to tolerate me for a few months and be too stubborn to admit he was wrong before he accepts that he made an expensive mistake.

Penny : Fair enough. Sadly, you are much too lovable. Make sure he, in all his love-struck can’t-bear-to-be-around-you-and-not-kissing-ness, writes you the best recommendation letter ever. Get him to hook you up with a female CEO. They probably don’t come with this drama.

Sadly, they also don’t come with this pay.

I guess I forgot to consider that no matter what happens, I’m toying with a difficult balance if I agree to this. If he dislikes the real me way too much, I may be able to pay off half my debts, but he may fire me. If he likes the real me too much for some lunatic reason, I might still be forced to give up this position if I don’t go through with whatever he will want from me after the dating period is over.

I need to crunch these numbers before I confirm or deny this insanity…

And I don’t have much time before this elevator empties, leaving just me on Mr. Marsh’s top floor.

Getting a job that pays this well was pure happenstance. Even if I don’t get a bulk sum now, I’ll be able to pay off my debts with this salary, right?

Probably the college one…

The other, though?

The other isn’t exactly on the up and up. It’s a loan I took out when I was in college full time and Dad had to have an emergency surgery for cancer, followed by treatment. I panicked when Mom called me, sobbing and saying we couldn’t afford it.

The amount we needed was a blur of numbers with too many zeros.

And the consequence of not paying that outrageous amount would have been losing my father.

No one was accepting my parents’ credit score.

So I made a skeezy deal with interest rates through the roof, no clear record amounts, and a bill every month that seems to only cover interest. Even paying monthly thousands, I still owe tens of thousands. And the only way I have a chance of getting rid of it is if I drop the kind of money Mr. Marsh is offering all at once at their business front with witnesses. I need proof of an all clear and to get out of there once and for all.

Even if Mr. Marsh doesn’t keep me through the full three-month term, having half of what I need gives me a head start that will take years off this battle. I have to do this. At least part way.

I have to take the risk and accept.

Taking a deep breath, I swap my phone for my LeoPad once I reach my desk right outside Mr. Marsh’s office.

Just…be honest.

I’m great at being direct.

It’s why so few kids liked me growing up.

It’s a real…a real super power.

Yeah.

I dare say I might need my trashcan again before this is done.

All the same, I tuck my LeoPad under the arm holding Mr. Marsh’s lunch and knock.

“Come on in,” he calls, so I push through into the blinding space.

With the full wall of glass windows overlooking the city dead ahead, sunlight fills every crevice inside, bouncing off the ivory whites and ash grays. It’s crisp. Clean. Clinical. I’d appreciate the décor if it weren’t for the waterfall feature ending in an entire koi pond on the left across from Mr. Marsh’s desk. Having five live fish the size of my head swimming in your office flooring is where I, quite honestly, draw the line on whimsical.

It takes everything in me to remain calm, cool, and collected as I deliver Mr. Marsh’s meal while second-guessing my opening line for this conversation. I’ve been editing it all morning. It still seems to suck.

Before I get the nerve to broach the subject, he says, “You don’t have to force a smile around me. I wanted to tell you that when we were reviewing today’s schedule this morning, but it was a time crunch with that early meeting.”

My entire script burns to a crisp, and I’m stuck smiling and staring as my brain struggles to reload.

The urge to put my fist through his face then eat his chicken parm is so high right now.

I’m a saint.

I’m actually a saint.

Every day, I stop murders with my impeccable self control.

As eloquent as a slug, I say, “That’s not…really how it works. You get business mode, and you don’t want me to turn off business mode during business hours because I will one hundred percent cuss out your clients if they get on my nerves.”

His blue eyes sparkle as he tilts his head. All I can see is a giant puppy when he says, “Do they do that often? Get on your nerves?”

“Constantly. You know how the human body has trillions and trillions of nerves?”

“Yes?”

“I keep mine on the floor in a puddle around my ankles. If anyone gets within three feet of me, I guarantee they’re on a couple billion of my nerves. The skill it takes to pretend they aren’t is actually quite commendable. I deserve an Oscar.”

An amused edge softens the bliss in his usual smile. “Fascinating.”

I swallow hard as I take a breath. “Mr. Marsh. I’ve given your proposition some thought.”

“Did you read my answers to the form questions?”

I…skimmed some, then I got overwhelmed and called my girls to see if they wanted to play Stardew Valley . But I shan’t be saying that, I think. “I started; however, the task did not fit into my plans for the evening.” I’m not getting paid to learn your favorite color, my guy. I do not have the capacity to care. “My motivation for what I’m about to say is purely monetary. I believe fully that you’ll have had enough of me after one date. If you’re willing to pay for that, I’ll consent to it.”

“You’ll consent to one date? Or you’ll consent to the full term?” He twists his chair. “I’m only interested in a full-term chance.”

“I believe you’ll be done after one date. I’m not consenting to a full term without more details concerning expectations. How many dates do you anticipate during the period? Must I emotionally prepare for casual texts? Phone calls? How much of my free time will you expect me to give up, assuming you stay interested through November? I want a contract.”

“Funny.” He stops twisting to pull out a formal document. Placing it perfectly at the edge of the desk in front of me, he says, “Does this outline everything of consequence?”

With a mere glance, no. Absolutely not. “What does my agreeing to treat this like a real dating relationship mean?” It’s the vaguest garbage I have ever seen. “I want hours. Events. The number of times I’m required to text back in a given day.”

“Marcella.”

Brow furrowed, I look up, and I fear my calm, cool, collected smile has gone disgustedly lopsided.

He seems much too chipper for my liking when he gently prods, “I want to test out a relationship. I already know you’re an excellent employee, but I’m not offering you another job. I’m asking you to treat me like your boyfriend for a few months. That means texting back when you would, going on dates when you would, being yourself under the condition that you treat me like your boyfriend. You have full autonomy to accept or decline my requests and advances if they do not interest you, knowing I will respect your wishes as I would respect someone I am emotionally-invested in.”

I tense. “So. No hard guidelines? No relationship agreement? No rules?” I forget I’m still operating during business hours and scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Relationships come with terms. And many of them fall apart because those terms aren’t ever solidified in text. I’ll paint you a picture: Joe and Sue are married. Joe and Sue have a verbal arrangement where Sue does the cooking and the laundry while Joe does the dishes and works. One day, Joe is too tired to do the dishes. This infuriates Sue, which infuriates Joe. Things devolve into a he said, she said, and neither person feels like the other cares about them, so they get divorced. How could poor Joe and Sue have avoided this tragic outcome? Well, easy. If they’d had a physical agreement to refer to with a clause concerning shared housework, they might have had the sense to build in a procedure for human error. They could have made a chart together and decided on the allotted number of graces in a given month for those times when Sue couldn’t bear to cook and Joe couldn’t stomach the dishes. Instead, they’re sad and alone and now both of them are working and cooking and cleaning up all by themselves. The end. ” My voice pitches by mistake, so I reel myself in and bite my tongue.

Watching me as though I’m the most interesting little lump in the world, Mr. Marsh asks, “Are your parents divorced?”

“Happily married and going on thirty years, why?”

“So they have a relationship agreement?”

“No. They’re just really good people, and they love each other, so both of them are always trying to do both the cooking and the cleaning for the other. It’s very cute, honestly.” My arms fold. “I am nowhere near as good, loving, or cute. If we agreed that your job was to do the dishes, and you didn’t do them one day, I’d stab you with a dirty knife, and you’d get an infection, and as you were dying, I’d whisper above your bedside, this wouldn’t have happened if it were clean.”

Mr. Marsh slaps a hand to his mouth before he crumples, gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. Hissing breaths whistle from his nose as he battles to pull himself together. It is a lost cause. His chest shakes with silent laughter, and he can barely crack one eye to look at me. “That mental image is my favorite thing.”

I reclaim composure, tilt my LeoPad forward, and direct my attention at the screen. “Shall I contact an artist to commission it for you, sir?”

He swears. “Yes. Please. I’d like an entire comic. Hire a small business. Whatever price they ask, double, no, triple it.”

I pull my gaze off my reflection in the black screen to meet his eyes. “I was being sarcastic.” I turn the dark screen toward him. “This isn’t even on.”

“Oh. Well. I’m not being sarcastic. Also, I think your tone is supposed to change when you’re being sarcastic.”

My lips purse. Yeah. So they tell me. “Sir, the point is, I don’t feel comfortable entering into this without more stable expectations.”

He fills his big chest with air, releases it, leans back, twists . “Fine. You drive a hard bargain, pumpkin.”

Every last nerve in my puddle electrifies, standing on end. Revolt soars through my chest. And I cannot be held responsible for the state of my face in response to his calling me pumpkin .

Merrily, he continues, “I’ll pay everything up front and cover all costs associated with this if you treat me like your boyfriend for the period leading up to November 30, when I expect your answer at the altar.”

My mouth is dry.

Everything? Up front. I can get rid of my debt in a matter of days? Start putting my paycheck into things like…like a truly functional AC? I could start looking for a nicer apartment. In a matter of weeks , I could move somewhere without loud neighbors?

I could afford to order another cake to celebrate?

I could buy a bed ?

“Treat you like my boyfriend?” I whisper.

“That’s right. No relationship agreements. Just genuine communication and healthy boundaries. The free will to accept or decline my invitations to go out without worrying that you need to stick to a strict set of regulations.”

I feel ill. Completely ill. The sensation rides up the back of my throat and swirls in my stomach. “Mr. Marsh—”

“Also, I will need you to call me by an endearment for the duration of this test. I’ll allow grace for Finn , but never Mr. Marsh and absolutely not sir .”

I am going to die. Say his first name ? To his face ? What kind of person does he think I am? A temptress? A promiscuous, brazen, forward lass? Does he assume I walk around showing my ankles to just anyone?

Using a man’s first name in a romantic setting is just about the same heat level as making out.

With. Tongue.

I suppose I’m just never going to refer to him ever again.

His lunch is getting cold. My lunch is getting cold. He has another appointment after lunch. Actually, he has seven back-to-back appointments after lunch. Where does he even get the time to be such a clown?

My head hurts.

I desperately want to be able to afford another cake from Publix. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of, really. Mouth dry, I say, “You realize if I agree to this, I’m agreeing to money? You’ll have wasted a lot of money on someone you probably won’t like very quickly, on someone whose motivation behind being around you is purely money .”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“You want a gold digger for a wife?”

He rises, slowly towering over his desk—and me. I’ve never accepted that he’s an entire head taller. It’s cruel to have to look up into his ever-present sunshine smile when I’m little more than a pitiful rain cloud, just trying to make a living by diffusing some of his rays. “May I touch you briefly?” he asks.

I try to wet my lips. “Where?”

“Chin.”

I grimace and clutch my LeoPad as I murmur, “If you must.”

Warm, his hand cups my face, fixing my attention on his sculpted cheekbones, his gentle eyes, the strong lines of his jaw, those super gentle eyes, both of them cheekbones again, an ear, another ear.

He chuckles. “Pick one place to look, pumpkin. Your eyes are very distracting jumping around like that.”

I settle on his nose to keep my thoughts off the fact having him touch me is such an unpleasant sensation. His nose is large, but not too large. Straight. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been broken before. There’s not a single bump to speak of. One week with me as a “girlfriend,” and I might be inclined to fix that…

Once I’ve settled, he says, “You are honest, hardworking, intuitive, and—as I’m discovering—genuine when you let yourself be. I don’t need you to be kind or caring. I don’t want a woman to coddle or pamper me. I want a companion who’s less superficial than many of the people I find myself surrounded by. I want someone who makes me laugh. For hours. At nearly every one of her two hundred blatant, unfiltered answers. I’d like someone like you. And you, Marcella, couldn’t be a gold digger if you tried.” His lips quirk as his thumb swipes my cheek, making my skin crawl. “I think we both know you’d be coming for my kidneys before you come for a penny beyond what covers your debt.”

He is not wrong.

But I am not prepared to suggest he is right.

“Do we have an agreement?” he asks.

Thoughts distant, I say, “Three and a half months. Until a wedding November 30?”

He nods. “Where you will say I do, or I don’t.”

“Publicly?”

“I’m not a monster.”

“That is the answer to a different question.”

“I will be editing these terms for you before the end of the day, and I will specify that your decision not be made in public. But, it will be made the day of the wedding, when everything is already planned, set up, and paid for. It will be made in a back room on-site of whatever venue we choose. And you will be in a wedding gown when you make it.”

I hiss a swear. “How about I just text you a gif that says eff no the morning of November 30?”

He bites his lip in an effort to subdue his smile. “I find my wishes to be extremely reasonable.”

“ Reasonable? You’re going to waste so much money on a wedding.”

“For someone who calls herself a gold digger, you are very concerned about my finances. Half a million dollars is the cost of a luxury wedding. Do you know how many millions are in a singular billion?”

“I try not to think about your net worth because it makes me question the ethics of your existence.”

“Do you know how many companies a luxury wedding would benefit? We can source all décor and guest favors from private owners. I’m thinking hundreds of jobs for hundreds of people. And then, after we’re married, you’ll have a special credit card. So much spending money. You can distribute the wealth to anyone you want.”

“Aren’t you getting ahead of—”

He lays a finger against my lips—even though he absolutely didn’t ask to touch me there, and it makes me slightly murderous. “Reminding you that marrying me doesn’t mean husband and wife things if that’s not what you want. In a few months, you might not hate me anymore. Then we can be amicable companions.”

I swat his hand away. “This sounds like you’re paying for a lifelong friend. That’s really sad. I’m sad for you.”

“Do we have an agreement?”

Closing my eyes, I take a firm step back, out of his reach, square my shoulders, and say, “I expect the contract on my desk in plain language as soon as possible. Include a clause that relieves me of all liability and refund if you cancel this foolishness midway. Also, as we’ll be officially dating—” It takes everything in me not to gag. “—starting tomorrow, you should organize to have a gift prepared for me in the morning. A celebration token, if you will. Lastly, the code word is pickles .”

His head lolls, bright eyes filling with confusion. “Code word? Like…a safe word? What sorts of things do you expect of your significant others if you start your relationships with a safe word?”

I narrow my eyes. “If you want to call it a safe word , be my guest. It does, in fact, keep you safe . As in, if I say it, get as far away from me as is physically possible. Or else I cannot be held responsible for the consequences.”

With that, I turn on my heel and leave his office to find my soggy, sweating foam container of pasta for lunch on my desk.

In some ways, it feels like an omen.

Pity, I’ve never been one to believe in superstitions.