Chapter 8

Give me a hint.

– Finnegan

“Studies show,” my beautiful, stone-faced bride-to-be begins, “that single women are happier than single men. They also live longer than married women.” Turning the bra she’s looking at around, she glares at the tag, holds it up to her…um…yeah…and huffs before putting it back on the shelf. “I get that.”

Being here feels incredibly illegal. An attendant just moments ago groped one of the other customers, who was only wearing lace. I did not know that happened in these sorts of frilly, pink and black, fine establishments…

Marcella, however, did because when we were greeted, the first words out of her mouth were: if you touch me, he’s suing.

“Why is this over fifty dollars?” she mutters at a very pretty black bra with a lacy butterfly design for the back and a tiny bow in the front. Not that I am noticing anything other than a butterfly theme. No mention of butterflies made it into any of my form questions, but it’s clear Marcella gravitates toward them.

Given her true personality, that she likes something so delicate is…cute.

“Cost is irrelevant,” I remind her.

If looks could kill. It’s like she’s trying to incinerate me with her eyes. “I know you’re not a pervert, Mr. Has Been Examining the Ceiling this Whole Time. So tell me why you decided we were going to start here .”

“Because. You ate too many cupcakes for breakfast and didn’t want to go out for lunch.”

It takes everything in me not to laugh when her fists clench so hard and fast her knuckles crack. “You know what I mean. Why the underwear shopping first ?”

I shouldn’t play around like this if I actually want her to tolerate me by November, but the way she responds to everything I say is gold. “I figured this would be the most taxing part of shopping, so it would be best to tackle it while you have all your stamina.”

She relaxes, turning back to the row of neatly folded and displayed undergarments. “Valid thought process. Sometimes I forget you’re intelligent.”

“That was almost a compliment.”

“It was a compliment.”

I laugh. “You’re not very good at compliments.”

She picks up something pink. “I am, actually, extremely good at compliments. I have a knack for paying attention to details, and the more detailed a positive observation, the more it means to someone. For example, your shirt today brings out the blue in your eyes and complements your hair well. An excellent choice.”

I glance down at the green shirt I’m wearing. It is the very one she put with this pair of pants and arranged in my closet alongside the rest of my outfits for this week—which include both my business attire and my after-work clothes. “Are you complimenting yourself?

Her lips quirk up into a smirk. “Absolutely. And I’ve done an amazing job.”

I bite my lip and cross one arm over my chest to grip my bicep. Tapping my fingers against the muscle, I watch Marcella continue her perusal.

No one should be this funny.

No one should always have a well-thought-out comeback at the ready like she does.

There has to be a limit to how clever someone is allowed to be.

“My underwear has never matched before…” She holds up a full, scandalous, set of pink lingerie, complete with both top and bottom pieces. “If I get in a car wreck, the paramedics are going to be so proud of me.”

It becomes mildly difficult to swallow, and my heart jumps as she tosses the entire set over her arm.

Casually coming in here was a less-than-fantastic idea, I think. Picturing Marcella in a full set of pink does unhelpful things to my brain. I don’t believe I have ever been invested enough in a woman to let my thoughts wander where they are right now.

Pink makes her seem so much more gentle than she is.

It’s devastating to my emotional health, but I can’t stop myself from wondering what would suit her the best…

My evil gaze drifts across mannequins and displays, taking in styles and shades. It’s a proper women’s undergarment store, not a risque one, but that doesn’t mean I should allow my head to picture Marcella modeling pin-up style in everything my attention grazes.

Unfortunately, the sewer that is my mind works religiously through creating the feature photos for scandalous calendars until its working on a spring two years away.

When Marcella takes herself to the back, I automatically trail after, stopping the second her destination becomes clear.

The dressing rooms.

“You’re welcome to go in with her,” an attendant, whose shirt is gaping to display product in use , informs me.

Expression sour, Marcella makes direct eye contact with the poor woman, snips, “ Incorrect ,” and slams the door shut.

“Oh.” The woman laughs. “Don’t tell me.” She lowers her voice. “You’re in trouble? Just so you know, underwear isn’t a good apology gift.”

I smile. “It’s not an apology gift. This is how she always is.”

The woman’s brows knit. “O-oh?”

“This is uncomfortable, and I’m dying,” Marcella abruptly calls past the door, causing the attendant to jump.

Shrugging in what I hope is a mildly sympathetic manner, I call back, “Which one?”

“Pink set. My disappointment is immeasurable. What will the paramedics think now?”

Not what I’m thinking right now. Which is great.

She swears. “I know, I know, baby.”

My face heats. Before I realize she’s talking to a bra.

“Unfortunately, breathing is mandatory. Shh. Shh , please don’t cry. I still love you. We just can’t be together.”

Scarlet, I find myself biting my lip again to stifle yet another onslaught of laughter.

When the dressing room door whirls open, I still haven’t completely recovered my composure, so Marcella shoots me a disgusted look before turning to the attendant and losing all her ire in a single blink. “Your store is very tidy and well organized. I apologize for my personality. I mean no disrespect.” With another blink, she’s trying to kill me with her eyes again. “I want this one. Let’s go.”

My eyes fix on the black butterfly bra. “Don’t you need more than one?”

“No.”

“Don’t you need…” I don’t want to say panties . I already should be locked up for coming in here, but, well, Marcella refused to accept my card when I tried to hand it to her in the limo.

Her eyes said suffer , and I leaned into my fate.

“You can get a six pack for ten bucks at Walmart. Those are the kind I’m familiar with. Since my effort to branch out resulted in pain, I would like to go to Walmart now and get the exact same things I have always gotten. Plus this.” She splays the butterfly side of the bra, looking at it almost tenderly. “This sparks joy. I will condemn myself to the pain for her.”

Mm. Yeah.

I think it’s unavoidable.

I may very swiftly be falling in love with this woman.

“If that’s all you want, I feel the need to reiterate how poor a job you’re doing of being a gold digger.”

“Untrue.” She trots her cute pant-suited self up to the register. Once she’s handed the bra to the woman behind it, she braces an elbow against the counter and looks at me. “I already have plans to abuse your funds at Walmart. Don’t worry.”

I’m really not worried. At all.

“That loaf of bread was only a dollar at full price,” I say, as Marcella opens the plain white french loaf in the back of the limo.

“Your point?” She lays the forty-seven cent bread beside her, atop a pathetic number of plastic bags.

“Why did you get it off the clearance cart?”

Sitting across from me, she tears open a bag of Sargento cheddar cheese sticks. “Because these were five dollars.” She peels one out of its plastic prison and tears the heel off her bread, seeming subtly pleased with herself when she says, “A week more of this and you’ll be broke.”

She bites into them together.

I find myself inexplicably entranced and mulling over all the times in these past two months that I’ve sat across from her, bored out of my mind, as she smiled calmly while working away on her tablet. She was hiding so much spice beneath her composed fa?ade.

Snapping out of the spell, I say, “Please tell me you don’t think that’s a meal. I was hoping to take you to dinner once you ran out of cupcake energy.”

She licks her lips. “I got hungry. Dinner wasn’t available. Walmart discount bread cart and cheese were.” She settles in. “Man, I love bread cart.”

“I take it you don’t cook much?” I murmur.

Mouth full, she blinks at me and swallows. “What an offensive question. Can’t you tell this recipe has been passed down in my family for generations?” Realization crosses her expression, and she removes another stick from the bag before passing me both it and a new torn piece of bread. “Girlfriend behavior. Couples share food. I excel at this.”

She is…such a strange creature.

I’d very much like to put her in my pocket and take her with me everywhere.

Assembling the cheese bread, I turn my attention out the window, at the buildings easing by.

This is nice.

Not the cheese bread.

It might be the cheapest thing I’ve had in my entire life.

But…

Okay, maybe it’s not so bad.

“Hey.”

I pull myself from my thoughts and find Marcella opening another cheese stick. “Yes?” I ask.

She nudges her chin at the rest of my bread chunk and cheese. “What do you think?”

“I think if you’re trying to make our first date a disaster so I won’t want another one, you are doing a very poor job of it.”

She goes still. “Are you serious?”

“Quite.” Smiling, I relax and tear off a surprisingly light and buttery piece of bread. “I’ve had a most splendid time thus far, and I am eager to continue.”

“Continue? There’s more?”

“You’ve not gotten any new outfits.”

“I got unmentionables, socks, and pajamas at Walmart. My suits are nice. I don’t need day clothes.”

I hum. “Are you sure about that? There’s a difference between attending events with me as my assistant and as my date. You need evening gowns for balls, fine dining. Casual attire for yacht parties, movie premiers. It may even be prudent to get you athletic wear. Once the seasons change, I’d like to take you apple picking, pumpkin carving, to a haunted house, on a hayride…all sorts of things that aren’t easy to do in a suit.”

“Bonfire?”

“Excuse me?”

“When it gets colder, I always want to burn things, but my family has never had the space, so I resort to lining up a dozen tea candles and huddling near them for warmth while I bask in the flickering glow. You have a large yard. At both your local homes. We could set things on fire.”

I beam. “My girlfriend’s an arsonist.”

Wary, she surveys me. “I don’t want to know why that excites you.” Heaving a breath, she finishes her food, twists the tie back onto the bread bag, and folds her arms. “What happened to you while you were growing up that left you with a twisted desire for abuse?”

Whoa, left turn.

My mind flips through memories of my childhood, private schools, tutors, busy parents, jealous friends, toys to fill the gaps between emotional connections. My mother was always in the kitchen. Baking, cooking, sending me off with elaborate snacks that the kids would tease me about. She insisted we all sit down for meals together, as a family, whenever possible. I lost my father earlier than most, but Marcella knows that. The news covered it and plastered my grief everywhere while I stepped up to fill his shoes. She doesn’t know about Mom’s declining mental state because I’ve managed to keep it out of the public eye.

Even before the dementia started setting in, Mom preferred to stay out of Dad’s spotlight. She was the silent strength that held us together and gave us something normal while I was groomed to be heir and Dad’s new businesses kept taking off, just like my grandfather’s had.

She was everything to us.

She is still everything to me.

Even on the days when I’m not certain she remembers exactly who I am.

“Are you…okay?” Marcella asks after I fear I’ve been quiet too long. I refocus to find her looking overly concerned about someone she claims to hate. Unease apparent, she says, “You stopped smiling. Was your childhood really that bad?”

My head shakes. “No. It was great.”

Her fingers dig past her suit jacket as she grips her arm. “Are you thinking about your father?”

A sting pierces my chest. It’s been years. I wish I were used to life without him by now. I’m just…not. “I miss him. He was a good…a good dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

I force a small smile before putting energy into finishing my bread and cheese. “To answer your first question, I don’t think I have a twisted desire for abuse. I suppose I simply don’t find you particularly abusive.”

“Assuming you aren’t a masochist, what is it that has you interested in me when I’m not a very enjoyable person to be around?”

“Who told you that?”

“Literally everyone but my parents and my two friends.” Her head tilts. “Scratch that. Literally everyone but my two friends. My parents tried to fix me, like good parents do in an effort to create suitable members of society, but eventually they realized I was a lost cause. The blunt meanness was in my veins.” A cynical smile twists her lips. “Get this, periodically throughout my kid years, Mom would do little at-home tests to check that I wasn’t a sociopath. I’ll never forget the conversation we had about all of it once I was older. I guess she thought I struggled with empathy.”

“Do you?”

A funny look weasels its way into her eyes as she fixes her attention outside. “I don’t think so. I feel so much when I choose to. I have empathy. It’s just that, most of the time, I don’t really care. Why should I? If I tried to care about everything all the time, I’d destroy myself. It’s better to care a whole lot about the few people who have proven themselves worthy of that energy.” Relaxing, she shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s what I think, anyway. Who knows…maybe I am a sociopath, and I’m just fooling myself because I have a good enough grasp on the logical progression behind emotional expression to respond correctly and I do occasionally go out of my way to do so.”

My heart constricts, dully thudding in my ears. This woman… My lips part. “What makes someone worthy of your care?”

She scoffs. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yes. I really would.”

Her eyes roll; the action reflects in the sunlit window. “Well, I can’t tell you. Part of being enough for me is being enough for yourself, which means you aren’t allowed to teach yourself how to be someone else.”

I arch a brow. “ Unless …a paycheck’s involved.”

She sniffs. “That is the notable exception, yes. I’ve deduced that it is likely hard to be yourself when you’re starving in a cardboard box off main street.”

The incessant pound of my heart in my head grows stronger with every moment. “If it would help, I think I could change at least a little. For you.”

She doesn’t even bother looking at me. “That is not how anything works. People don’t change; they grow. Sadly, that means you’re only going to get happier and more energetic.” Her voice takes on tragic airs. “I pity my future, should my employment last.”

Strange. I pity my future should it not.

Before her, my assistant was an amicable young man who couldn’t maintain the demand of working for me when his wife got pregnant. Before him, it was a woman who saw her chance to take advantage of me at the height of my grief after my father passed.

Once I’d managed to turn that woman down with a smile, I threw furniture.

I can hardly remember a time I’ve been so mad. So…disappointed. So hurt.

Even if Marcella hasn’t been acting like herself for the past two months, her professional consistency has always been comforting and reliable. Now that she’s transparent, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone half so secure.

I’ve come to value her presence and the peace her capable airs bring.

Being around her has let me be myself without worrying how she’d respond.

Being around her, from the first day, has been safe.

No.

– Marcella