Page 6 of Merging Wright

She’s been talking and her voice finally registers. “. . . and I will not have my desire for a partnership degraded to a condition of pretending to be your wife.”

Did she just spit? I’m pretty certain venom left her lips at the unsavory idea of becoming my wife.

Pretending. Pretending to be my wife. “I didn’t—”

“Furthermore, I cannot simply fake something.” Her arms flail outward. “Acting in a sense, in a . . . a . . . situation I know nothing about.”

“Meaning?” I cock an eyebrow.

“I’ve never been anyone’s wife.”

Tension slips off my shoulders. I’m strangely pleased she’s never been married. “How hard can it be to pretend?”

She levels me with a glare that I swear could take down this building. Her schoolmarm posture of crossed arms and tilted head warns she wants to old-school spank me with a ruler. I might like the sting. The distraction would do me good right now.

I don’t want to think about Fischer, or Ma, or that old truck.

“I’m not an actress.”

“I didn’t say you were.” But what else am I suggesting?

Her arms fall to her sides again, widening the low opening of her blouse.

The hint of nude bra and the valley between those supple globes holds my attention. My thoughts turn reckless, as I imagine losing myself in her. I need a moment to suspend the disbelief that this is happening to me. Burying myself in her might do the trick.

Mach, come home. Bring a wife. My mother’s swirling script flits back into my mind. She knows I’m not married, and there’s hidden meaning in her request. Even headed six feet under, my grandfather is up to something.

“I cannot turn on and off my emotions,” Jane continues.

“Who is talking about emotions?” My gaze catches those sapphire eyes behind her lenses, feeling the tug and yet fighting the pull. I could get lost in the depths of those sparkling gems.

Jane harrumphs and turns her head away from me, breaking the connection and freeing me from something foolish, like rushing across this office and pinning her to the wall. Taking her lips and burying my tongue inside her mouth. Submerging myself between her thighs for a few minutes in this struggle of grief and regret and pure hatred for a dead man.

A soft knock sounds on my office door, and despite not wanting an interruption, I speak out of habit. “Come in.”

Amelia McCaryn enters. She’s new and works more directly with Tucker on his accounts as he’s recently started taking extensive time away from the physical office to work remotely in Michigan, where his girlfriend lives. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a few questions about the Rolsten account, and—”

Glancing back at my top executive, our eyes catch, and a thought occurs. I tip up a challenging brow. I hate myself only a little before I do what I’m about to do, but the action might be the only way to get Jane on board with my request. “Amelia, I was wondering if you could do me a huge favor. I need someone to pre—”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” Jane interrupts with all the fire I’ve seen her exhibit on occasion when she’s been asked to stay late or give up a weekend. Has she really skipped vacations? How did I not know this about her?

“Really?” I tamp down the relief in my throat. Playing dirty to get what I want isn’t typically how I work. I’m beyond that type of behavior with an employee. But Jane is who I want for this mess.

I trust her.

It’s only for a few days. What could possibly go wrong?

5

Playlist: “Take Back Home Girl” – Chris Lane

[Jane]

The following morning, I meet Mach at five a.m. with my bags. With no room to argue his proposal yesterday afternoon in the presence of Amelia, I was almost out the door of his office when he made his second unreasonable demand.

My heels clacking on the cement floor should give away my approach, but Mach doesn’t look up at me. He stands hunched over the old pickup truck, chest rising and falling, aggressively. His spread arms brace him on the hood. His knuckles are bloody and raw. Sweat dampens the edge of his hair while his head tips forward.

“Mach,” I whisper, worried about disturbing him. However, my voice echoes in the relative emptiness of the parking structure. Drawing closer, a fresh dent above the wheel well on the driver’s side ruins the otherwise pristine condition of this classic vehicle. From the swelling on Mach’s hand, two and two equals him going a few rounds with this inanimate object.