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“That’s beautiful, Marcella.”
“Shut up. What are you even still doing here?”
His head shakes. “I’m waiting for my goodnight, Finn.”
My lip curls. “Are you sure you sent your order to the right location?”
He settles himself in a little deeper, as though preparing to stay here all night. “Pretty positive. Why don’t you like my name?”
“I don’t dislike your name. Do I think it’s stupid? Sure. A little bit. It has too many letters.”
“Our names have the same number of letters.”
“Too many syllables then,” I mutter.
He tilts his face a fraction closer, whispering, “I have some bad news, Mar-cel-la.”
“Ugh!” I snap. “It’s just too intimate to call you by your first name, okay? It changes everything about how I compartmentalize our relationship in my head, and haven’t I had enough change for one week?”
His nod…it’s almost amicable…almost understanding. Unfortunately, he then opens his mouth. “So what you’re saying is you would address your boyfriend by his last name or not at all? If so, I’ll accept it. However, if not, I think your aversion might be a breach of contract.”
“This is why I wanted the terms of our contract laid out more clearly, so you couldn’t pull this kind of crap.”
“Marcella. I’m not pulling anything. If you tell me this is how you’d treat your boyfriend, I’ll accept it and rescind my earlier request that you use my name or endearments. It was wrong of me to assume how you’d naturally act with your significant other in any respect.”
I have been on precious few romantic excursions—all of them disappointing—but never once did I call any of those chuckleheads by their last name with an honorific. “Once upon a time,” I mutter, “I graduated high school, and I had the devastating experience of meeting a teacher in a store the following summer. When I greeted her, I used Mrs. Blackwood. She said I could call her Helen now that I’d graduated. This is the first time I’ve ever said her name. It is also the last.” I lift my arm between us. “Look. Goosebumps. I’ve broken a law of the universe.”
His hand moves, skimming across my raised hair, and I jerk. “Do not.”
Wincing, he pockets his hand. “Sorry. I understand. Change isn’t just painful for you. It’s uncomfortable and disturbing. May I present my point of view?”
“If you must.”
“Mrs. Blackwood is the title you used when Helen was your teacher. It’s how you associate her in your head as your teacher. Associating her with Helen removes the weight of her role. You aren’t willing to let that go because to you it’s not correct to change that history or alter your relationship now. Just because you graduated doesn’t mean she earned the closeness you associate with removing her title.” He wets his lips. “I am very serious about marrying you, Marcella. I understand your reservations and your concerns where our characters appear to collide; however, in your eyes, have I not paid a lot of money for a chance? In your eyes, is it right for you to intentionally distance us? To intentionally keep me in the purely business compartment of your brain, if that is what you’re subconsciously doing? Have I not earned the right to ask that you change how you consider our relationship?”
I hate him. I really hate him. But, again, he isn’t wrong. He has paid a lot of money for a chance to escape the business box in my skull. There’s just one important thing he’s entirely neglecting. “Mr. Marsh, you hold all the power in both our relationships. If you change your mind about me after I spend any time reprogramming mine where you’re concerned, I’ll be stuck with the emotional weight of undoing it all.”
“You’re afraid you’ll come to like me and I’ll lose interest?”
I don’t meet his eyes. “I’m too good at pretending. I don’t trust you enough to take the chance I’ll trick myself into finding you less annoying than I do just because you’re nice to me. If we’re treating this like a trial run relationship, I require the grace to keep my distance until I trust that you’re safe. In different ways, that’s how new relationships start—with caution, boundaries, and walls. You’ve paid for the chance to have conversations like these after spending a lot of off-the-clock time together, but money can’t earn you any rights where my emotions are concerned.”
“That is more than reasonable.”
I drag my attention up, wait for a but. It doesn’t come.
Instead, he says, “Is there anything I can do within the constraints of this trial that would help level the power discrepancy between us?”
“Short of making me a joint owner of your bank accounts and businesses, I think I’m kind of stuck. I’ll have to deal with being in a position where I have no actual legal or personal rights outside your moral code. The discrepancy comes down to money in the end. I can’t afford to protect myself. Thankfully, I don’t think you’re a bad person, but what do I really know about you? The biggest thing you have going for you so far is that very few people allow me this kind of consideration to explain myself without getting defensive. I appreciate when people are mature enough to talk to me until we can understand each other.” Clearing my throat, I lift my hand and awkwardly provide my…boyfriend…with a shoulder pat of appreciation. “Anyway. Good talk. Goodnight.”
I’m turning around when he says, “Okay.”
Something in his tone strikes me as odd, so I peer back at him.
Much too pensive and lenient, he bites his bottom lip and hums. “Setting you up with joint access and permissions now rather than later makes little difference to me. I’d provide nothing less for my wife. If having access to the ability to abuse my funds early on in our relationship makes you more comfortable, it is simple enough.”
My mouth drops open. “Are you insane?”
“I don’t think so. Can you put situating this into my schedule?”
