Chapter One
Hayden
This is so not in my job description. Sulking over mundane tasks is my favorite pastime as I stand—in my one pencil skirt because all my pants were crumpled in the laundry basket begging me to wash them—in line for coffee at Five Four Coffee in Times Square.
New York City has an endless supply of lines, providing an endless supply of thinking time on my end.
And I’m thinking Darcy Marshall could get his own dang coffee.
Or at least hire a young, ambitious, wide-eyed lackey for mundane, totally irrelevant tasks like this.
Who cares if this is his favorite coffee shop and it’s on my way to work, i.e.
, his house, where he has his own espresso machine and full coffee bar that sits as new and pristine as the day he bought it?
“Stella would have never put up with this,” I grumble under my breath. I contemplate calling my best friend to vent, but I know she’s in the midst of teaching her first class of the day at the University of Southern Mississippi.
Ugh.
I check my smartwatch, watching the seconds tick by on the analog clock.
Seconds that could have been used on proofing speeches, checking website subscriptions, filtering donations from political action committees, or even making dreaded phone calls to news media outlets to schedule Darcy’s next interviews.
I tap my toe against the white, tiled floor.
“Next,” the barista calls as unenthusiastically as I feel.
I approach the guy behind the sleek black counter, kind of digging his midnight-blue hair color. He must be new here because I haven’t seen him before. I’d remember that hair; it’s like he’s stepped out of an anime show. Hmm. He’s quite handsome with his sharp features and dull expression.
“One venti Americano with two espresso shots, a pump of sugar-free butterscotch, and a splash of cream, please.” I mentally pat myself on the back for getting through the complete order without stumbling over my words.
“Hot or iced?” he asks. Shoot.
“Hot.”
“Name?”
The fun part. I have never given my real name at this coffee shop before, and I know the regular employees enjoy my name creations. Let’s do something special for the new anime-looking guy.
I bat my eyelashes and say in Japanese, “Namie.”
“Spell it.”
“N-A-M-I-E.”
The cute barista—Kale, as his name tag reads—scribbles the romanized name on the cup and puts the order in. He takes the card I hand him, all without the slightest hint of a smile.
“Need a receipt?” he asks in the same monotone voice he’s used this entire exchange. Just because I don’t want to be here doesn’t mean I can’t try to make this man’s day better.
“My boss might literally morph into a Nomu if I don’t bring one back,” I jest. Kale only blinks, the blank expression still coating his face.
“My Hero Academia?” I question, stating the show’s name the Nomu monster is from.
He shakes his head slowly. At least I got some reaction out of him, even if he’s slightly terrified of me now.
I thought for sure this guy watched anime based on his cool and wild hair color.
He hands me my card back with the receipt.
“You should watch it!” I call over my shoulder as I move to wait in the new line to receive the beverage.
Cute Kale has already begun boring the next customer.
My shoulders rise and fall with my sigh.
I miss Stella. She didn’t watch anime, but she played Zelda: Breath of the Wild with me and let me ramble on about fan theories surrounding my favorite anime—My Hero Academia.
It’s not cool for a woman of my caliber to be into that sort of stuff, but it's my escape, and it has been for a long time.
Regardless, I learned another new language out of the obsession.
“Namie,” another barista calls out, pronouncing it like nay-mee instead of the proper nah-mee.
Walking up to the counter with my head held high, I pick up the coffee for Darcy.
I borrow the pen on the counter to scribble the Japanese characters above the romanized name, always jumping at the chance to practice the characters.
I freeze in my tracks.
This. Is. For. Darcy.
Darn it all. I forgot this was his coffee, and the name on his cup in Japanese translates to “God’s blessing.”
Dear Lord, if Darcy understands Japanese, now would be the time to give him amnesia, I pray. Okay, it’s not a great prayer, but the Lord already knows my heart.
Of all people, Darcy Marshall does not need an ego boost.
After trekking to the nearest parking garage, I hop into my car and begin navigating the morning traffic as I make my way to Darcy’s house—er, mansion?
His massive place is located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, which is why I’m driving and honking my horn at people jaywalking instead of walking on the streets myself.
There’s a part of me that wants to crank up J-Pop tunes and take my dear, sweet time, intentionally letting his coffee grow cold so that maybe he will quit sending me on this waste-of-time errand every morning.
But then again, the man is running for president, and I need this to go well for the both of us.
My student loans won’t pay themselves off.
Plus, if I get him elected, the door will open with countless opportunities for me.
As a young, Black female in politics, I’m not incredibly liked or accepted.
I get called every name in the book by the liberal media, many of them saying I am a disgrace to my people because of my conservative-leaning beliefs.
The conservative media always tiptoes around me like they don’t want to offend me by saying the wrong thing.
It’s all unbelievably frustrating.
But if I can be the woman to get Darcy Marshall—tech guru, billionaire, inventor of the popular networking app COFFEE, and Independent candidate—elected to America’s highest office, then maybe that’ll shut everyone up and I can do my thing.
Debt-free. My ultimate dream is not to be president, but to be Secretary of State. That’s where the real action is.
I’ve clawed my way to where I am and won’t let cold coffee ruin it for me. I put the pedal to the metal and book it to Darcy’s place.
Arriving at the entrance, I reach through the window of my car and punch the code in to open the large, white monstrosity of a gate.
The name “Ophelia” is crafted in a thick, straight font across the top of the gate.
According to the news, he renamed the estate from Marshall Estate to Ophelia Estate after his father passed away.
Ophelia was also the name of his younger sister who passed away, though eerily enough, there isn’t much online about her passing considering the fame and prestige of the Marshall family.
The bars swing wide, granting me access to the long, stone road leading to the house—er, mansion.
I really need to quit referring to the giant place as a mere house.
Houses are for normal people, and Darcy is not normal.
Centennial Blush Magnolia trees line the way forward, and I long for April to arrive in order to see the trees blossom, creating a wall of pink to brighten this dreadful drive.
Okay, the drive isn’t dreadful, but knowing it ends with me sitting in Darcy’s mansion twists my stomach into knots, and not the good cinnamon pretzel kind.
The man infuriates me. He’s cold and stoic.
Hard to understand at times. My issue is with his grumpy personality, not his work ethic or values.
I respect him and support his vision for the country; I wouldn’t take on this campaign if I didn’t.
I park my car outside his garage, flip down the visor mirror, touch up my lipstick and make sure my hair is in place, then step out of the vehicle.
Right as I click the button to lock the doors to the black Toyota Camry, I realize I forgot Darcy’s coffee in the cup holder.
Beeping my key fob and opening the door, I lean in to grab the cup.
“Finally.”
Jerking upright at the sound of the deep voice, my head hits the roof of the car and the coffee slips out of my hand, falling onto my black leather seats and splashing on my body.
My torso and face burn with the contact of the hot liquid, and I let out something between a howl and screech. Jumping away from the crime scene, I trip over my heels and squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for a painful impact with the ground.
It never comes.
Instead, I fall into strong arms. While it’s not the concrete I was expecting, this embrace is as solid as if it was sculpted out of marble.
I don’t have to open my eyes to know Darcy Marshall is holding me up, my white blouse is now a cream color, and my face is so scalded that a pink color is probably showing through my hazelnut skin.
As a matter of fact, I think I’ll play dead.
Like a opossum. It’s better than facing my boss, the future president of this country, while in this unfavorable, painful condition.
“Are you okay?” His voice is gravelly, like he is unsure whether or not he should be concerned. Not a comforting feeling when you’re pretty certain you have at least second-degree burns coating your face, chest, and stomach.
It stings like a million bees.
My only reply to his question is a whimpered grunt.
All of a sudden, the ground disappears beneath my feet, and I’m being carried bridal style.
I should jump out of his arms and walk myself like the independent woman I’ve been my entire existence, but that’s asking for a death wish in my current state.
My stinging skin, the throbbing in my ankle, and the lightheadedness from the sheer embarrassment of the moment take over, and I surrender to Darcy’s aid.
I squeeze my eyes closed and enjoy the gentle sway of his steps and the light breeze caressing my burning face.
It’s like I’m a child being rocked to sleep on a front porch, something I’ve only experienced in my dreams. My brain turns off, refusing to face the reality of this humiliating situation.
Dear God, I pray I’m not fired after this…
Far too soon, the rocking stops and the breeze vanishes. I’m lowered onto something soft and warm, and I risk peeking through one eye.
A tall, white ceiling welcomes me back to the world of the living, and I blink a few times to make sure my eyes are working properly.
With great effort and a tiny groan, I sit up, which is quite difficult since I’m sinking into…
whatever I’m on. Once I’m fully up and my head is effectively pounding, I register the couch.
The yellowest couch I’ve ever seen. Like a ripened lemon.
I sweep my gaze around the room, cataloging it as a bedroom. Darcy’s estate is huge, so it’s not abnormal that I haven't been in this room before. Not that I would ever go into one of Darcy’s bedrooms, though I don’t think this one would be his.
It’s too…warm.
The sheer curtains draping the large floor-to-ceiling windows are obviously there for decoration as the morning sunlight pours into the room.
The furniture looks to be made of pine wood while the art decor and flowers of the room carry the same lemon-yellow tone of the couch.
Hues of pastel colors are woven throughout, somehow tying everything together into a perfectly chaotic bow.
A teddy bear with a yellow ribbon on one ear sits on the bed like it’s waiting for its owner’s return.
I love it.
“Good. You’re sitting up.” Darcy clears his throat as I slowly turn my head around to find him standing in the doorway with a bottle of water and a wet rag. “Lay this on your face. It will help the burn.”
I hold out my hand to accept the rag, but instead of handing it to me, he tosses it. My reaction time is clearly hindered at the moment due to the injury, so the rag hits me in the face before I can get my hand raised to catch it.
“Thank you,” I mumble from beneath the folded rag as I pull it off my face.
“Go to the hospital. You’re off today.”
I’m… “What?”
Darcy turns on his heel and walks out of the room, still holding the bottle of water I had assumed was for me. Thirst squeezes my throat at the sight of the disappearing water.
“I’ll be okay,” I shout hoarsely toward his retreating frame.
As much as I’d love to take the day off, there’s no need for a hospital visit.
I’ll pick up an over-the-counter cream later.
But for now, I take his absence as a welcomed visitor and slump into the downy couch, unfolding the rag and placing it over my face.
The cooling effect is immediate, and I sigh with relief.
“Take this water with you.”
I scramble to sit up on the sinking couch and tug the rag from my face just in time for something hard to slam onto my thighs.
The water bottle he only moments ago walked away with now sits in my lap.
My jaw drops in lieu of words while he exits the room as if he didn’t just toss a bottle of water at an injured woman.
His own campaign manager, at that. And if I didn’t want to guzzle down this water right now, I’d have half a mind to throw it at his retreating frame.
What. A. Grump.
But I guess you get to be whatever you want to be when you’re a billionaire running for the nation’s highest office.
Slumping my shoulders, I take a much-needed sip of the water, pat the rag against my stinging face, pull myself out of the sinking lemon couch, and then try to find my way to the bathroom to check the burn on my chest and attempt to salvage my blouse.
The hospital was not on the agenda for today, and I hate reworking schedules.
Time to take this crappy day and turn it around. If life has taught me one thing, it’s to never wallow in sorrows and hardships when I can choose to overcome them.