Chapter Twelve #2
“You never know.” I’m feeling more at ease remembering Five Four Coffee isn’t crowded like usual.
The Marshall name has been dragged through the mud because of my father’s cheating scandals, and I’ve put my blood, sweat, and tears into my image to burst from his dark shadow.
People rarely associate me with him now, and it’s of utmost importance that this marriage contract with Hayden never leaves the hands of the few parties involved.
All anyone needs to know is that we fell madly in love while she comforted me post break-up with Priscilla. A quick, whirlwind romance.
The media would have a field day if they found out I was paying my campaign manager to marry me.
Hayden has garnished enough respect from fellow politicians and has a positive image in public opinion.
I’m banking on her small, but growing popularity within the public sphere to nail my father’s reputation into the grave forever.
Hopefully people will love our “love” story: two people who grew to love one another while working side by side as I grieved the ending of my previous engagement.
“Um, Mr. Marshall? Are you going to sit down?”
Coffee shops are too public for this conversation. “How do you feel about going back to the office?”
A quizzical expression streaks across her face, but she stands up and grabs her coffee. I tuck the contract back into the manila envelope, wondering why she even took it out just to leave the table in the first place.
Hayden reaches for the contract after I’ve closed the envelope, but I hold it out and away from her. “This stays in my hands from now on.” I begin to walk toward the exit.
“Starting soon, what’s yours is mine, my darling Darcy.”
My feet freeze on their own accord hearing my first name on her tongue. She’s only used it a few times now, but I’m not sure it will ever cease to stop me in my tracks.
“Goodness. I almost ran into you. Stop stopping on a dime. That would have been twice in two weeks that I’ve spilled coffee because of you.”
Abruptly, I turn to face her. She’s way too close for comfort, so I step back from her burning chocolate eyes. I swallow. “No pet names. Just Darcy will do.”
Hayden’s eyes lose their playful spark, and she nods her head. I did it again. I said something in a harsh tone that hurt her feelings.
Is hurting her feelings worth not hearing my name on her lips? Is making her eyes dull with sadness worth avoiding the thrill that ricocheted through my body because of the velvety way she said my name? Like promises of things to come.
Yes, it has to be worth it.
When it comes to Hayden Bennett, thrill is not an emotion I can let myself experience. I can’t let the woman who embodies sunlight continue to thaw my icy, controlled exterior. The moment I let someone in is the moment they will use my story against me.
“You don’t need an apartment anymore, Hayden. What would people think if it was leaked that you had a place of your own?” I’m doing some serious rethinking about marrying this stubborn woman. How can she not see the obvious conundrum she is putting us in by demanding to keep a lousy apartment?
She leans forward, placing a forearm on her crossed legs. Her chocolate eyes glare daggers at me. “Because I need a space away from you.”
“Ha,” I scoff. “As if I would be in your way often enough for you to need privacy. I will be the one needing to get away from you.” She sneers, but I continue. “Come to think of it, maybe I should have my own apartment.”
“Get your own apartment then, but I am keeping mine, Darcy.”
A slight shudder runs down my spine at my name on her tongue. That will take a while to get used to, I fear. Maybe it would be good for her to be able to get out of my space.
“Fine,” I bite. I make a mental note to contact her landlord later and find out more details about this apartment she’s so desperately wanting.
“Fine.” She sits up and crosses her arms, a smug expression filling her face. She only won because I decided to let her, but I keep that information to myself.
“Why did you cross out the dress requirement, Hayden?”
The smug expression falls, and Hayden looks like a woman about to give me a piece of her mind, as if she doesn’t do that enough.
Instead, she laughs. “We live in the twenty-first century, not in your namesake’s era, Darcy.”
I make a mental note to call Mother and let her know one more time just how much I hate my name. “Class is timeless, Hayden Bennett. Besides, you sport the last name of the heroine in that story, if I remember correctly.”
She shrugs, a momentary dark look crossing her face. “Can’t help your last name, Darcy.”
Marshall. Is that a better last name to flaunt? Darcy Marshall, son of the late Gerald Marshall. Father ran our last name through the mud. He soiled it completely, even if the media is unaware of all his failures. I can’t call them mistakes because he knew what he was doing.
No, Gerald Marshall failed his wife, his daughter, and his son. He failed the Marshall name.
“Wait a second.” Hayden’s voice brings my focus back to the task at hand: finalizing the marriage contract. “Are you saying I lack class, Mr. Marshall?” Her voice teeters on the edge of teasing and playfulness, but her expression is sharp.
“I wouldn’t fake marry you if I thought you were incapable of class, Hayden.” Why in Heaven’s great design are we using each other’s names after everything we say?
She uncrosses her arms and tilts her head. A loose curl falls, and I swallow, folding my hands in my lap.
“Good answer, fiancé.”
I choke on my next breath at her words. Maybe we should stick to using each other’s names instead.
“I need to know you will wear dresses to formal events. I need my wife to look the part of First Lady.”
“I can do that in a pantsuit, Darcy.” Here we go with the names again.
“The conservatives are all about trad-wife culture, Hayden. You are the one who brought that research to my attention a couple of months ago. Which means you need to wear dresses most of the time.”
She grins. “Ah, so there is the compromise. Most of the time, I can do it. Just let me be myself every now and then, okay?”
“Just be the refined version of yourself.”
Her grin falls, and she stands up, hands on her hips. “I am so sick of your backhanded compliments.” And with that, she storms out of the room.
I flinch as the door slams shut.
She is refined; I meant that. But sometimes, she can be… a bit much. Too eccentric. She knows this, right? People are generally self-aware of their personalities. She’s a grown woman who’s obsessed with anime and video games, for heaven’s sake.
Regardless, I said the wrong thing again. And if I keep this up, it’s going to be a long fake real marriage.