07

By the time Friday came, I was already losing my mind.

The notice of sale from the bank arrived and I had about three weeks before the house was to be auctioned off. I got the default notice about five months ago and I’ve dragged it on as much as I could. The mortage payments were too high and it was hard to keep up with it along with the insurance, property taxes and all the utilties. I wouldn’t even get started on my other consumer debt.

I went to the bank again to get another loan but considering I was only nineteen without much of a credit history or other collateral, they turned me down. I went to other loan agencies but the interests were so high they were almost criminal. I’d only bury myself deeper into debt if I signed up with any of them.

I needed money and I needed it fast but my paycheck barely covered my personal expenses and if I had to move in three weeks, I needed the money to pay down an apartment if I didn’t want to sleep on the streets.

There’s money to be had if you would just sign on the dotted line.

Even though I was still stewing in indignation at Brandon’s offer, I couldn’t resist going over the contract.

Reading it definitely made things seem very real—that marrying him and getting paid for it was not merely just an arbitrary idea.

The marriage would be real—and so would be the lies and the money.

« Why can’t just the prince come riding down in his white horse and rescue Cinderella because he couldn’t live without her ? » I muttered after I finally put the contract down late Thursday night, the revisions scribbled on it in red ink.

Because this isn’t a fairytale and Brandon Maxfield is no prince charming.

I convinced myself that night that this was bitter reality and I had decisions to make—there will be no fairy godmothers or true love. Even if money didn’t make the world go round, it paid for a lot of its maintenance.

On Friday morning, I went to Marlow’s in a light blue cotton sundress and flip-flops, my long, dark blonde hair gathered in a loose bun. I wasn’t due for my shift until much later because I worked Friday evenings when the tips were the best.

I was there five minutes before ten and Brandon was already waiting in a booth, reading the morning paper.

« Hey, » I said when he finally looked up.

His hazel eyes flickered with some unidentifiable emotion as he appraised me from head to toe.

« Like what you see ? » I snapped, irritated by the sight of him because it was either that or I swooned which would not do at all.

« Just thinking that you might clean up better than I hoped, » he said as he gestured to the seat across from him. « You look almost… young. »

« I am young especially compared to you, » I retorted as I slid into the booth and tossed my white canvas bag on the seat next to me. « You’re practically ancient—from the caveman era, I believe. »

« Good morning to you too, Ms. Samuels, » he said dryly. « And yes, I am older and wiser than you. »

I scoffed. « Real wise people need not to point it out. Those who wish they were point it out often. »

He smiled and set down his paper. « Bad week, huh ? »

I sighed and leaned back against my seat, eyeing him in exasperation. « Oh, I’m sure you have a pretty good idea of how great things have been going for me. That’s why you look like the cat who got the cream. »

« Hmm, this is sounding positively better with each second, » he said with a satisfied smirk. « And since I’m pretty certain I’m getting the answer I want today, let us take our time and maybe feed you first. If I’m right about the dire straits you’re in, you’e probably been skipping breakfast. »

I glared at him as he beckoned one of the waitresses over. « I can afford to feed myself just fine. »

He rolled his eyes at me and smiled up at Becca who came to our table and glanced between us in curiosity. « Can we get a plate of your Working Man’s breakfast ? I’ll have some pancakes and bacon for myself. »

I opened my mouth to protest that I couldn’t possibly eat that much but my stomach growled, and I bit my lip and lowered my gaze, hoping to God that no one heard.

« What would you like to drink, Ms. Samuels ? » Brandon asked, surprising me.

« I’ll have a cup of coffee, Becs, » I told the waitress with a small smile. « Thank you. »

Once the waitress was gone, I turned a narrowed glance at him. « A Working Man’s breakfast ? Really ? You think I can eat three pancakes, roasted potatoes, some bacon, ham, pork sausages, scrambled eggs, two pieces of buttered toast and a large raisin scone ? »

He just let out an impatient sigh. « If you’re going to be my wife, Ms. Samuels, you need to look like it. The starved look isn’t a new fashion trend a Mrs. Maxfield would be sporting. »

I gave a short laugh. « Starved ? I’ll tell you that every man in this room thinks I have enough flesh where it matters. »

It was true. I’ve always been on the curvy side but whatever baby fat I may have had I lost in the last year. Working hard and eating little had that end-result.

« A Mrs. Maxfield also doesn’t call lascivious interest to herself, » Brandon added in a low hiss although his eyes raked over me with something that could only be called lascivious interest. Well, that certainly made things interesting.

« Would you rather have a mousy, frumpy and unattractive Mrs. Maxfield ? » I asked with a snort. « Who would ever believe you’d marry one considering your very discerning taste in dating only women with the highest caliber of beauty and poise—« 

« —my standards are pretty high—« 

« —and narcissism and brainlessness ? » I finished with a grin when his smug expression tightened into a frown. « I guess I could call on my acting chops and pretend to be blown away by the prolific undertaking of determining one’s outfit to the next charity ball. I mean, how are we to save the world if not in platform heels ? »

A smile ghosted on his lips but he quickly chased it away with another frown although his warm hazel eyes held a sparkle of humor. « A Mrs. Maxfield has to be a woman of impeccable taste, pleasant and charming humor, perfect manners and easy flexibility with her husband. »

My brows rose. « Flexibility ? Do you mean like gymnast-level positions in bed ? I danced a little in high school but I don’t think I can get my foot over my neck. And you’re not supposed to be sleeping with me. »

Heat flared in his gaze and his jaw clenched. « No. I meant flexibility in cooperating with her husband in decisions deemed best for her. »

I sat back and enjoyed his discomfort before piercing him with a glare. « Be direct, Mr. Maxfield. If you meant subservience, just say it. You expect a Mrs. Maxfield to be entirely in your power, like a puppet whose strings you can pull anytime. A Mrs. Maxfield should never voice contradicting opinions, complain about your extra-marital affairs or point out your excessive ego and greed. She must also turn off a few functioning brain cells to be able to cope with the insipid concerns of the people in your circle if she wants to be able to relate. She needs to be a spineless and superficial arm candy, battery-operated with a million dollars. Did I miss anything ? »