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Without missing a beat, he pulls the small trashcan out from under his desk and passes it to me. “You did note that unexpected change could make you throw up. To be honest, I don’t consider love and romance as important as companionship, so don’t worry if you aren’t attracted to me. I won’t force you to do anything against your will.”
Aren’t attracted—
I’d have to be an amoeba not to recognize his physical appeal.
Like him, however, I also consider the emotional side to be of far more importance than anything physical. So. Yeah. That I hate his character is a gargantuan issue, I think.
My skin goes cold and clammy. My LeoPad slips out of my grasp, so I can cradle the offered trashcan in my arms. Is this biting sensation running down the back of my throat embarrassment? Dread? Vomit?
“You would have preferred marrying someone you didn’t know?” he asks.
“I was drunk, Mr. Marsh. My options were mess around online or cry into my birthday cake. It was by no means a serious application. I think it would be for both our benefits if you neglected it entirely.”
Mr. Marsh clears his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand. You wrote a collective ten thousand words into an application you weren’t serious about?”
I scowl at him over my trashcan. “Everyone needs a hobby.”
A short laugh escapes him. “You are enchanting.”
“Agree to disagree.”
“Please consider becoming my wife, Marcella. It’s not a bad deal, and I can’t help but keep coming back to the fact all your annoyances with me aren’t grounded in any negative behaviors.”
Um. Yeah. Because Mr. Marsh is a little sparkling sunshine fairy in a bottle. But I am a storm cloud. “I respectfully decline.”
“You mentioned having an awful lot of debt in one of the money questions I included.”
I wince. “That sounds like the start of blackmail. Should I be recording this?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders, leans back, and twists side to side in his chair. “You may, if you’d like. However, legally, against me, you don’t have a prayer.”
He has a point. And it’s sharp.
“I promise I’m not trying to blackmail you. It’s just… Is being in my presence really as terrible as you’ve made it out to be?” he murmurs. “Just because I smile too often and am too energetic?”
My eyes narrow.
“You can tell me the truth. Your honest feelings don’t bother me, and I think we’re well past your good assistant act. I’ve never seen you be particularly energetic, but do you always fake your smiles?”
“When I’m on the clock, yes.”
“Ouch.”
“Everything about you makes me uncomfortable.”
All joy melts out of him. “I deeply apologize. I always try to respect my employees and give no reason for my life to be used as the general public’s entertainment. Despite that, we do find ourselves in close quarters often. If I’ve done anything—”
My eyes roll. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about right now. You’re so…sickeningly sincere. With everyone. You tip. Always. Really well. At fast food restaurants. When there’s terrible service. It doesn’t matter. You’re just kind to everyone. And another thing, I’ve never entered a building behind you because you always open the door for me. When we split off on trips, you send one of your bodyguards with me to make sure I get to my room safe. The constant overbearing joy that leaks out of your pores is like a virus infecting everyone around you. You treat everyone with grace. You, as a person, barely seem real. But then add in your overflowing energy and childlike wonder?” Scoffing, I toss a hand at him. “You’re thirty-two, Mr. Marsh. Why are you always moving? How are you always moving? Are you hooked up to caffeine twenty-four-seven?”
He stops twisting his chair.
“Is tired a state of being you even understand? Because the rest of us happen to exist in it. Perpetually.” I huff, compose myself, make sure I’m maintaining my customer service voice. “All this to say, it’s really not you. I’m just easily frustrated. I like when things make sense. And you don’t. No one’s supposed to be rich, handsome, and kind with no medical issues to speak of. The least you could do is have a mild case of asthma. Come on.”
“You’re upset that I’m…too perfect?”
I scoff. Again. “I’m upset because it’s my character. I’m upset because you carry yourself with the innocence of an idiot, but everything works out for you anyway. You’re smart and respected even when you don’t act like it. You work hard, but you don’t have to work hard for much. I run on logic. You’re fueled by emotion. We clash. And I pretend we don’t because you pay well and I don’t feel unsafe around you like I have at other assistant jobs.” Heaving a sigh, I sweep my fingers through my short dark hair. “Can we please just pretend none of this happened?”
His gaze slips toward his computer screen, then down to the stack of papers in front of him. His fingers flex, and he shifts in his seat. “I’d…rather not.”
