Chapter 1 #2
“Do you hear yourself?” I said, my voice starting to climb. “You just told me to marry you. Not ask. Told. TO MARRY YOU, Weston!”
He stared at me, perplexed. “I’m failing to see the issue here.”
I scoffed. “Trust me, I can tell.”
“You’re the most convenient option,” he said like he was rhyming off what kind of dog food to get Milo. “We both know that. You’re here, you’re single, and you spend all your time with me anyway.”
“Because that’s my job,” I said, trying to get the difference through that thick head of his.
“Being your temporary wife is not my job.” It wasn’t just paperwork and posing and ticking boxes.
Not for me. If I ever stood next to someone and made those kinds of promises, I’d want it to mean something.
Marriage was supposed to be choosing someone, but Weston wasn’t choosing me, he was using me.
“It’s not like you have a life outside the office.”
His words landed like a blow to the chest. It took me a second to catch my breath. “Excuse me?”
Weston ran a hand through his dark hair. “I’m serious. When’s the last time you went on a date, Lena? When’s the last time you interacted with someone who doesn’t work here?”
My face went hot. “That’s none of your business.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, get off your high horse. I’ve called you at two in the morning and you’ve answered every time—and I’ve never once heard a man’s voice in the background. Let’s be honest here. It’s not like you’re drowning in other offers.”
I could feel myself go crimson, but I wasn’t sure if it was from embarrassment or rage. Or both. Probably both.
“Are you saying you asked me because you thought I was too desperate to say no?”
At this, he finally seemed to realize he might have misstepped. “I didn’t say desperate,” he hedged.
“No, but it was what you meant,” I shot back, fuming.
Rather than addressing that, he chose to change the subject. “Let’s talk terms. Duration, financial arrangements, living situations during the transition period.”
Oh, look at that. It turned out I actually could get angrier after all.
“Financial arrangements, Weston? Seriously? Are you buying me to be your bride? Do you honestly expect me to say yes to that? No wait, I can’t say yes because you still haven’t asked me. You’re just acting like it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll go along with this.”
He had the audacity to look confused by my reaction. “Of course you will. You always do. All that’s needed now is for us to settle the terms. This is how business works, Lena. We negotiate, we agree, we execute. You know this.”
Something inside my chest cracked like a fault line. Seven years. Seven damn years of sixty-hour weeks, of canceled vacations, of missed birthdays because he absolutely needed me at the office. I was the most efficient assistant in Houston, and this was how Weston Kincaid thought he could treat me?
Well, like hell was I going to be office equipment he could temporarily rebrand as a wife.
“You know what?” I said, slamming his laptop closed as he reached for it. Milo’s tail wagged furiously as he looked between us. “You’re absolutely right. I do know this. So let me negotiate.”
I planted my palms on his desk and leaned toward him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. “Here are my terms,” I said as seven years of swallowed words clawed their way up my throat. “Go. Screw. Yourself.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth briefly, like he couldn’t believe the words coming out of it, before snapping back up.
“With a rusty spoon,” I added helpfully. “Sideways.”
For the first time in the seven years I’d known him, Weston Kincaid looked genuinely speechless.
“While we’re negotiating,” I continued, my voice rising higher, “let me also decline your ‘generous’ offer to discuss my living arrangements like I’m a houseplant you’re relocating. And for the record?”
His lips curled back as he leaned across the desk. He was so close, I could practically feel the heat radiating off his body. “Lena,” he growled in warning.
I was too frustrated to care. “Telling your employee they will marry you isn’t negotiation. It’s desperation!”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I am not desperate.”
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, you look like a man who thought ‘I need a wife’ and immediately looked at the nearest woman with a pulse and a valid ID.”
“This is a business solution to a business problem.” His voice had that clipped edge it got when people weren’t keeping up with his logic. “Everything doesn’t have to be…” He waved his hand dismissively. “Emotional.”
I laughed. It was a sharp, slightly unhinged sound. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m deeply emotionally invested in not being treated like a blow-up doll with a business degree.”
His jaw ticked. “That’s not—”
“Or maybe you’d actually prefer the inflatable wife model? She comes with an automatic ‘yes, sir’ feature and never requires vacation days.”
“Bloody hell! What do you want?” he snapped. “Some sappy, cliched rot with me down on one knee? Will that make all of this easier?”
“No, I don’t want you down on one knee!” I didn’t want him in any position, especially that one.
“Then what do you want from me?” he growled, something simmering in the tension in his voice. Something that made my skin prickle.
“Why don’t you start with trying not to insinuate that I have nothing else going for me,” I said, my voice layered with irritation. “And that my sole purpose in life boils down to my availability to be your fake wife.”
“I was merely pointing out the fact that this shouldn’t inconvenience you,” he said through his teeth.
“Right, sure,” I muttered sarcastically. “Why would getting married to my boss inconvenience me? Especially since my entire world revolves around you, Your Royal Jackassness.”
He bristled, his shoulders hunching up by his ears, but I wasn’t done.
“Oh boy,” I continued. “I can’t wait. Do I get dental with this promotion to wife? Is there a dress code to be Mrs. Kincaid? Let me guess, a lot of tartan, right?”
“Enough of this!” he cried. “Call the courthouse.”
I crossed my arms. “No. I will not be marrying you!”
His eyes flashed, something icy and sharp in their depths. “That’s not an option, Lena. We’re getting married today. You’ll come with me to Scotland to do a little song and dance for the solicitor and then—”
I threw my hand up. “You can stop right there. Even if some delusional part of me wanted to consider this, I’m on vacation starting the end of next week.
Or have you already forgotten? What am I saying—of course you have.
You always conveniently ‘forget’ when I take time off, or bulldoze over my vacation requests, because you can’t fathom the idea of me having a single sliver of a life that doesn’t revolve around you. ”
He sneered at me. “You’ll just have to reschedule to another week.”
I clenched my jaw so tightly my head throbbed.
It felt like it was going to explode as I willed the heat of my anger to suffocate him.
“And miss my best friend’s bachelorette party?
The one I spent months painstakingly planning to work around your already ridiculous demands on my time?
The one I gave you a heads up about last year?
” He was out of his mind. “Yeah, no. That’s a hard pass from me. ”
“Tess will understand,” he said dismissively. “And I’ll compensate you with generous overtime. You can send her an expensive gift and call her from Scotland.”
“Bah!” That was it. That was the final straw.
Something inside me snapped at his sheer audacity, speaking for Tess.
Speaking for me. Assuming I’d ever be okay with ditching my best friend since childhood to play pretend with Weston while she was gearing up to get married for real.
That any kind of gift would make up for my absence.
“If anything, you should be compensating me with hazard pay for having to put up with you! I can’t just go another week because I’m not skipping Tess’s bachelorette. And you can go to hell!”
He walked around his desk, coming toward me. Silence stretched between us, electric and dangerous, tinged with irritation and anger and something I couldn’t name. All I knew was that we were standing too close, breathing too hard, and I wanted to throttle him.
“This doesn’t have to be so dramatic,” he snarled.
“I’m not being dramatic. You’re making assumptions you have no right to make,” I hissed, tasting fire on my tongue, “and expecting everyone else to put their damn lives on hold for you. My God, Weston, I don’t know where you get the audacity.
Maybe they start mailing it to you with your interest payments once you make your first million! ”
“It’s actually auto-deposited!” he snapped.
“Along with the entitlement and the super-sized ego and that smug little smirk?”
His eyes flashed. “If you see my capable, professional assistant anywhere, let her know I’d like her back instead of whatever,” he gestured to me, “insanity I’m currently dealing with.”
“Why don’t you try throwing some more money around!
That always helps, right?” The fact that he’d even suggest there was a dollar amount out there that would make it worth missing the bachelorette party was the most insulting part of all.
As if anything could replace all the life experiences I’d be missing out on with my best friend.
Fuck that. And fuck him.
“You waltzed over and decided that poor, pathetic Lena would be grateful for the chance to marry you because you assume she has no life, no prospects, and nothing to offer except for her availability!” I was practically vibrating.
“Well, let me assure you, I have plenty going for me outside this job. And I will be enjoying my happily unmarried life on a beach next week with my best friend, drinking margaritas, and there’s not a single damn thing you can say to change my mind. ”
His mouth flattened into a thin line, his nostrils flaring. But it seemed he had no response to give to that. Not even an apology. I shook my head, all desire to continue this conversation leaving my body.
“You know what? Enjoy your inheritance crisis.” I needed to get the hell out of here before I added “murder obnoxious boss” to my to-do list. “I’m sure there’s a mail-order bride catalog somewhere that can solve your problems.”
I twisted away from him and marched straight for the office door.
“Lena!” he called. “We need to figure out a solution to Grandad’s will!”
“We will not be figuring out anything,” I said, yanking the door open. “I’m sure this is a simple business problem you can negotiate yourself out of. Since you’re so good at that.”
I slammed the door on my way out, my heart hammering against my ribs as I felt something I hadn’t experienced in seven long years: the delicious satisfaction of being absolutely, completely unavailable when Weston Kincaid needed me most.