Hayden’s doe eyes stir something in my stomach. “We’re almost there. Should I stay in the car tonight, or…?”
“Come in with me.” I swallow the lump in my throat at the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. Who cares that she’s sad? I’ve made her sad plenty of times.
No, not sad. I’ve made her mad. She’s cute when she’s mad, but seeing her sad makes me… sad.
Wait, no. She’s not cute. It just doesn’t bother me as much when she’s mad because it’s usually over something small and insignificant.
The quiet is all encompassing; the only sound is tires on gravel as we enter through the gates of Weatherby Estate. Before long, the car halts in the circular driveway, and Ren jets out before Lionel can open the door for him. Lionel looks back at me, and I wave him out of the car. Now, it’s only me and Hayden. The silence and tension is sharp enough to slice through the atmospheric energy around us.
I look Hayden over. She’s pretty, in an unconventional way. She’s untamed, one could say. But she’s smart and would make the perfect Mrs. Darcy Marshall… with a little polishing, of course. “You mentioned you were only here to get me elected, correct?”
She nods her head slowly. “But Mr. Marshall, I am so—”
“Say no more. You’re here for one job? Here’s a job for you: Be my wife.”
Hayden is a statue, frozen in time with her mouth hanging open from speaking before I interrupted her umpteenth attempt at an apology. A few long moments pass before she even blinks.
“Oh, you’re trying to get me back for my outburst.” Hayden forces a laugh, interrupting my thoughts. “Good one. I thought you were serious for a moment there.”
“I am serious,” I state. Hayden opens her mouth to speak again, but I cut her off. “Be my wife.”
She is silent again, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. What part of this does she not get? I’ve already made up my mind. She needs to get on board with my decision.I’ve should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.
I continue speaking. “Of course, I will compensate you for your time handsomely. How does two-hundred grand a year sound to you?”
Instead of looking impressed like I imagined in my head, Hayden looks like she might pass out.
Correction. She vomits.
Right into my lap.
The stench is immediately suffocating, and I do what any reasonable person would.
I shove the door open and lean out of the door frame just in time for my stomach to empty itself.
“Mr. Marshall,” Hayden exclaims through a sickly groan. From the sound of her door opening, I imagine she’s doing what I’m doing, which is getting the heck out of this puke mobile.
Though I can’t see her because my back is to her, I hear her heels click on the gravel driveway, drawing closer to me. I wipe my mouth with my jacket sleeve—it’s already ruined—and stand up straight.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Marshall. It must have been the—”
I hold a finger in the air, effectively silencing her. I can feel her eyes boring into my back, but I refuse to turn around. If I did, I would most likely be arrested for murder tonight.
Another crunch of the gravel tells me she is coming closer.
“Mr. Marshall.”
I continue staring into the darkness of the night around me. Hayden’s stomach contents coat my pants and shoes. My favorite Armani suit. A growl rumbles through my throat.
Did she honestly find me that repulsive? She laughed earlier at the idea of marrying me, but to be quite frank, I thought it was mere shock at the statement. Now, I’m realizing that she might honestly not find me the least bit husband material.
Which is another reason to make sure she says yes to me. How can she think that I am not worthy to be a husband? Much less hers?
I will prove to her that I can be a dang good husband, even if it’s just a fake one. I won’t be like my father. Ever.
A petite hand rests on my shoulder, and I stiffen.
“I’m so, so sorry. Let me pay for your dry cleaning.”
