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Alas.
“Marcella Reina Keyes,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip as he peruses the text on his screen. The idea of a laugh puffs from his nose as he cuts a glance my way. “I did a thing.”
My eyes close, briefly, and I do my very best not to sob.
Anytime Mr. Marsh does a thing, I need to readjust his plans, make new orders, cancel and confirm reservations, update his wardrobe for whatever climate he’s decided we’re ending up in. The entire ordeal involves usually twenty emails and thirty phone calls, all of which often occur on a private jet. Because, what do you know, he’s planned a business deal in Nepal.
I’ve been here for two months.
I have seen more of the world than I have ever wanted to.
Whatever the opposite of wanderlust is—that’s what I have.
Stay home lust. Leave me alone lust. For why lust.
If not for that glorious, glorious salary, I would not still be here.
The only reason I chose assistant as my career path at all is because it’s a position of planning and telling people what to do. I excel at both those things. It’s just that…well…my excellence may vary where the most frustrating man in the world is concerned.
“Are you all right, Marcella?” he asks.
I swallow, hard, and open my eyes. Voice still pitched in my customer service tone, I say, “Of course. What have you done?” This time. What have you done this time that requires me to rip up everything in your calendar, you soulless ginger?
His fingers lock in front of his pouting lips, and there’s almost a kind emotion in his eyes before they go chihuahua empty-bright once more. “I made an advertisement,” he says, as though he has learned a new word.
I’d be proud of him.
If I cared.
“Incredible, sir.” I look at my tablet again. “Should I get marketing involved? Send data somewhere for analyzation? Take—”
“For a wife.”
My mind goes blank.
Achingly slow, I lift my attention off the tablet before me, meet Mr. Marsh’s strikingly amused gaze, and barely whisper, “What?”
“I made an advertisement for a wife. Wanted: Billionaire Housewife before Christmas. Ring any bells?”
No. Not exactly. If I had to identify the sound going off in my head right about now, it’s more like a siren. My mouth has gone utterly dry. Two weeks ago, on my birthday, I got a little drunk and a little click happy with a stupid ad.
A very, very stupid, blindingly bright ad…
“Why…” I attempt to moisten my lips. “…didn’t you tell me about this?”
“You had the day off. I got bored, and I was unsupervised…” He toys with a pen, and if he picks it up and starts clicking it, I will kill myself.
I wish I could say I’m surprised he got bored and started advertising for a wife. I’m just not. This man’s boredom is the consistent fuel behind this entire industry’s success. There’s always a new deal to make, a new avenue to try, a new company to grow into the multi-millions.
I don’t have to like the chaos to know it works.
After all, his chaos this time roped me in, didn’t it?
Maybe I’m overreacting.
After all, where would the Finnegan Marsh get the time to sort through the hundreds of applications he no doubt got? This world is full of desperate idiots.
I just usually enjoy pretending I’m not one of them.
