I have not watchedPride and Prejudice, but I don’t need to. Society has told me the story, and I unsubscribed.
My phone rings, stopping me in my tracks.
“Hayden,” I breathe her name in relief. “I need your help.”
“I’m at Stella’s wedding,” she says in that aggravating way that is technically respectful but oozes disdain under the surface.
“I know, and I’m sorry.” I pause, still not believing this predicament I’m in. “Priscilla broke off the engagement.”
She gasps before stuttering a word that sounds like “what.”
I don’t have time for this.
“I don’t know what to do, Hayden, so,” my voice elevates with each word, “tell me what to do. I am not losing this election because I amwifeless.” I grimace over the word like it’s the bad leftover taste of a jalapeño popper. I’m spiraling, and I loathe losing control.
“Unbelievably stupid, having to go to Hayden for this,” I mumble under my breath.
“Breathe, Mr. Marshall.” The soft way she says my name ruffles me. How can she be calm in this situation? This can make or break my campaign! She continues, “I’ll be back in New York in two days, and we will figure something out. For now, I’ll call our social media team to stay on top of the stories and make sure everything looks good and is in your favor.”
Not enough. “Just get here fast.” I hang up the phone.
I make my way to my in-home office and slump into the black leather chair behind my desk. A stinging ache arises in my chest, and thoughts of childhood days with Priscilla infiltrate my mind. I don’t have time to mourn the loss of her friendship, though. Leaning my elbows on the table, clasping my hands, and laying my chin on top of my fists, I try to think of eligible single women in my sphere.
Most of the women that come to mind only want me for two things: my money and status.
But I don’t want to marry a woman who wants to use me to climb her own social ladder. Those women are often clingy and dimwitted. If they are smart, they are manipulative and nasty. Iwould be utterly vexed to the point I would snap and send them packing myself.
No, I need to find a classy, respectable woman to be my wife. Someone who understands the world I live in but does not necessarily want to be a part of it. A woman who is independent, loyal, and a true confidant. One who doesn’t care about the name, money, and status of Darcy Marshall but will be my sidekick all the same. One who can handle me when I can’t handle myself.
I don’t need love, but I do need respect, loyalty, and trust.
How will I find a woman who checks all those boxes?
Chapter One
Hayden
This is so not in my job description. Sulking over mundane tasks is my favorite pastime as I stand—in my one pencil skirt because all my pants were crumpled in the laundry basket begging me to wash them—in line for coffee at Five Four Coffee in Times Square. New York City has an endless supply of lines, providing an endless supply of thinking time on my end.
And I’m thinking Darcy Marshall could get his own dang coffee. Or at least hire a young, ambitious, wide-eyed lackey for mundane, totally irrelevant tasks like this. Who cares if this is his favorite coffee shop and it’s on my way to work, i.e., his house, where he has his own espresso machine and full coffee bar that sits as new and pristine as the day he bought it?
The hum of the machines, the chatter and energy of the people, and the modern vibe of the place energizes me, but the thought that I could be elbow-deep in campaign plans right now sours the atmosphere. Not even the lo-fi music smoothly playing in the background can perk my mood. It’s the beginning of March, andI have eight months left to get this man to 270 electoral votes. I should be working!
“Stella would have never put up with this,” I grumble under my breath. I contemplate calling my best friend to vent, but I know she’s in the midst of teaching her first class of the day at the University of Southern Mississippi.
Ugh.
I check my smartwatch, watching the seconds tick by on the analog clock. Seconds that could have been used on proofing speeches, checking website subscriptions, filtering donations from political action committees, or even making dreaded phone calls to news media outlets to schedule Darcy’s next interviews. I tap my toe against the white, tiled floor.
“Next,” the barista calls as unenthusiastically as I feel.
I approach the guy behind the sleek black counter, kind of digging his midnight-blue hair color. He must be new here because I haven’t seen him before. I’d remember that hair; it’s like he’s stepped out of an anime show.Hmm. He’s quite handsome with his sharp features and dull expression.
“One venti Americano with two espresso shots, a pump of sugar-free butterscotch, and a splash of cream, please.” I mentally pat myself on the back for getting through the complete order without stumbling over my words.
“Hot or iced?” he asks. Shoot.
“Hot.”
