The smug expression falls, and Hayden looks like a woman about to give me a piece of her mind, as if she doesn’t do that enough.
Instead, she laughs. “We live in the twenty-first century, not in your namesake’s era, Darcy.”
I make a mental note to call Mother and let her know one more time just how much I hate my name. “Class is timeless, Hayden Bennett. Besides, you sport the last name of the heroine in that story, if I remember correctly.”
She shrugs, a momentary dark look crossing her face. “Can’t help your last name, Darcy.”
Marshall. Is that a better last name to flaunt? Darcy Marshall, son of the late Gerald Marshall. Father ran our last name through the mud. He soiled it completely, even if the media is unaware of all his failures. I can’t call them mistakes because he knew what he was doing.
No, Gerald Marshall failed his wife, his daughter, and his son. He failed the Marshall name.
“Wait a second.” Hayden’s voice brings my focus back to the task at hand: finalizing the marriage contract. “Are you saying I lack class, Mr. Marshall?” Her voice teeters on the edge of teasing and playfulness, but her expression is sharp.
“I wouldn’t fake marry you if I thought you were incapable of class, Hayden.” Why in Heaven’s great design are we using each other’s names after everything we say?
She uncrosses her arms and tilts her head. A loose curl falls, and I swallow, folding my hands in my lap.
“Good answer, fiancé.”
I choke on my next breath at her words. Maybe we should stick to using each other’s names instead.
“I need to know you will wear dresses to formal events. I need my wife to look the part of First Lady.”
“I can do that in a pantsuit, Darcy.” Here we go with the names again.
“The conservatives are all about trad-wife culture, Hayden. You are the one who brought that research to my attention a couple ofmonths ago. Which means you need to wear dresses most of the time.”
She grins. “Ah, so there is the compromise. Most of the time, I can do it. Just let me be myself every now and then, okay?”
“Just be the refined version of yourself.”
Her grin falls, and she stands up, hands on her hips. “I am so sick of your backhanded compliments.” And with that, she storms out of the room.
I flinch as the door slams shut.
She is refined; I meant that. But sometimes, she can be… a bit much. Too eccentric. She knows this, right? People are generally self-aware of their personalities. She’s a grown woman who’s obsessed with anime and video games, for heaven’s sake.
Regardless, I said the wrong thing again. And if I keep this up, it’s going to be a long fake real marriage.
Chapter Thirteen
Hayden
“Stella! What should I do? I don’t know how to be a daughter, much less an in-law.” I’m pacing my apartment floor, trying to burn the anxiety from my veins. T-minus 90 minutes until I am supposed to meet Ruthanne Marshall, or Ruth, as she asked me to call her when she told me that I would be another daughter to her.
“Honey, you just be your bubbly, sunshine self and that woman will adore you just like I do,” Stella’s mom, Marian Harper, hollers, appearing beside Stella in the face chat video.
My heart warms at her words. “You’ve been a great stand-in mom to me, Marian.” She told me at Stella’s wedding that I could be another daughter to her, and she has intentionally reached out to me since then, making sure I was fed, socializing appropriately, and emotionally full.
“I’ve talked with Ruth before, and you will love her. Better yet, she will love you. You have nothing to worry about.” Stella offers a broad smile before looping an arm around Marian’s waist. Inotice Marian lean in, and I feel a momentary stab of pain in my heart. The brave woman has been living with crippling rheumatoid arthritis for years.
I stop pacing and swipe at the sheen of sweat on my forehead. I’ll need to blot my face with a tea tree wipe before I leave.
“You both are right. I’ve got this,” I say unconvincingly. Maybe the more I say it, the more I will believe it? “But what if she doesn’t think I am good enough for her son?”
Stella raises an eyebrow, and Marian’s expression closely matches with her daughter’s. I wonder if any of my expression matches my mother’s. “I don’t think that will be the case, but even if it is, your worth is not attached to what she thinks of you.”
“You’re right,” I relent. “But I’m still a nervous wreck.”
