How could he not want money?!
The fact that he’s continued to refuse me paying him drives my mind on a winding trip. Money is all my family has ever cared about. How to make a buck off of anything.
Thank God my father doesn’t know about the inheritance. I’m not sure how much my life is worth to him, but I’m guessing it’s less than $300,000.
A half hour later, we pull up in front of the small white house I bought with my own money two years ago.
The place isn’t huge, but I like the cozy little structure.
And it’s mine, which is the most important part. Earned every square foot of it.
The engine quiets when I turn the key. Charlie doesn’t immediately rouse. I take a moment to examine him. He has a round face, but interesting angles appear when he smiles. AndCharlie smiles a lot. Must’ve lived a charmed life to have so much joy in him.
I’m not jealous.
Well, maybe a little.
But I wouldn’t want to take his happiness from him.
His hair is cut close to his head in a fade that darkens from his ears to his crown. I wonder if the contained cut is his preference or chosen for his corporate job. Maybe he’ll let his hair grow over the next year, allowing some kinky curls to develop.
The idea of us spending an entire year together is wild.
If he agrees, that is. No signed marriage certificate means the deal is still in limbo.
If I were smart, I would have driven him straight to the courthouse and gotten this set in stone. No backing out.
But there’s more than just getting his signature on a piece of paper.
Wai Po made sure of that.
I know this fake marriage scheme is ridiculous. I keep waiting for Charlie to tell me that Dash asked him to go along with it for long enough so that my baby brother could find me some professional help.
But Dash doesn’t know about this, and Charlie has literally shipped his life to my house over the past few weeks.
Just to test that this is real, I reach over and poke him.
“Huh?” Charlie blinks himself awake.
“We’re at my house. Are you ready to come in?”
“Wha—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head to wake himself up. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Charlie unfolds himself from the car, and we each claim a bag. He doesn’t bother arguing with me this time, and I hope we’ve cleared up that nonsense, never to be dealt with again.
No stereotypical gender roles in this household.
Although I might give him the job of reaching for things on the top shelf, just so I don’t have to bother with dragging my step stool out every time.
“This is it.” Wow, I could sell used cars with that enthusiastic pitch.
The front door lets us into a small entryway. On my long list of construction projects is knocking down one wall here to open things up a bit more.
“Swear it gets better.” There goes that saleswoman again.
When I glance up at Charlie, he’s smiling back at me.
That’s when I remember the job he just left—and assume he was good at.
