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“But?”
“But it’s clear she doesn’t understand why you’re doing this. I think sharing the reason behind it would help her come to terms with the decision.”
“She’s already agreed.”
“She’s agreed verbally,” he says. “But she hasn’t said yes to you in front of an officiant yet.”
I run a hand along the stubble on my jaw. He has a point. Until I have the deed to my grandfather’s house in hand, I can’t look away from this.
From her.
“Noted,” I say.
“Good. I’ll draw up the contract and send it to you by the end of the day.”
We hang up and I stare at the inbox on my screen. Organized and sorted, and near empty. Miss Myers handles most of my communication. My correspondence. My schedule.
She has since the first day I stepped into Exciteur to take over for Tristan. The bleeding hearted fool stepped down, all because he was dating one of the company interns.
Wasn’t even an HR violation.
“To make her more comfortable,” he’d told us partners. “I want it all to be legitimate.”
His loss. Exciteur was at a position of near global dominance in the consulting world and if he didn’t want to be at the helm of that ship, there were plenty of people willing to fill it. Like me.
Miss Myers had come with the position, just like the decor of his office. A mousy young woman who’d never had her hair out of place, who dressed like she wanted to be invisible, to blend in.
And now my wife to be.
I run a hand over my face. Sleeping had been hell for the past week, as it is when the memories are at their worst. Not to mention the ticking time bomb. Months had passed since the reading of my grandfather’s will.
I wish I could let it go.
That I could buzz Miss Myers in and tell her she’s off the hook, she doesn’t have to marry me, go ahead and quit and live her life crocheting, reorganizing her bookshelves or whatever else she did for fun.
But I can’t.
Because then the damn, fucking house will pass to Charlotte, with her garish colors and talk of flipping houses. She’ll strip the place. Tear down Grandfather’s office and throw out all of his books. Install a pool in the rose garden.
There’d been a time I wanted to burn the place to the ground.
And now I’m willing to marry my own assistant to get it. If Grandfather could see me now, I don’t know if he’d laugh or curse me out for finding a loophole in his will.
He’d probably do both.
My mind runs through the list of women I’d been on dates with over the past six months. More than I’d ever dated before. More than I ever wanted to date again.
It had been moronic conversations about moronic subjects with women who barely knew me. Socialites and business-women and even a few models, all of whom agreed to dates after they heard my name. But pretending to be interested in anything long-term was beyond me.
So.
Miss Myers. Cecilia. With her prim blouses and her smart efficiency. Who had talked back when I made her the offer. Who had come into this office and negotiated with me, standing her ground, even if I suspected she’d fold like a house of cards if I’d pushed.
She’d found a backbone beneath all that pale silk.
Far more annoying was the fact that I’d need to hire a new assistant, one who’d need training. Which meant I’d be operating without a limb for a few months.
A soft ding on my computer announces new events added to my schedule.
