Even calling it a crush is too small for what I feel for him. He has this calming force over me. I relax when I’m with him. I don’t know how he manages it, but he does. I’ve had to learn to live with the fact that he only considers me a friend. Yet I have to admit that each time he suggests that I marry him, a small part of me wishes I could do exactly that. Even though I know he’d only be doing it out of convenience.
“I don’t know. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he comes in here.”
“I think you’re reading too many romance novels.” I open my laptop and attach the list to an email. My finger hovers over the send button. Don’t be selfish. He saved my job once; this is my chance to return the favor.
I hit send. Regret hits me harder than I ever could have imagined.
Chapter Three Wyatt
A list? I stare in stupefaction at the email I just got from Lucy. She actually did it. How in the world could she create a list of supposedly perfect candidates for marriage? It should only be her name on the list. I press print, grab the paper, and rush out the door to The Daily Drip, where I know Lucy will be hanging out as the place is her second home.
“What the hell is this?” I shout, shaking the paper at her.
“It’s a piece of paper from the looks of it, and since you’re a lawyer, it could be anything from you demanding a million dollars to you asking for the network to be checked because you can’t load the NBA app.” She takes a sip of her skinny mocha no whip, extra hot, please, latte. Her friend, Eden, watches from behind the espresso machine.
“It’s the list of names you sent me. Don’t forget the almond milk. That shit is good.”
“I know how you like it,” calls Eden.
“But you only started making it with almond milk six months ago,” I remind her. At first, I didn’t like the change-up, but now I can’t drink the regular cow stuff.
“Because Lucy told me to switch it up for you. She knows what you like.”
I turn to Lucy with a glower. “This is not the same thing as turning me on to almond milk in my coffee.”
Lucy grabs the list from me. “Stop waving that around. Why are you printing it out anyway? Save some trees.” She grabs the now finished drink from Eden, shoves it into my hand, takes my phone from my other hand, flashes it in front of the screen, and then places it into my breast pocket. “There you go. Coffee made. Check paid. Off you go.”
And just like that I’m dismissed. Unreal. I pick up my coffee and take a drink. At least my morning brew is perfect.
When I get to my office, Ernest informs me that my Uncle Cristoff wants to see me.
“Give him this,” I tell my assistant. I shove the crumpled paper in his face.
He scans it over quickly and asks, “Is this a marriage list?”
“I didn’t make it. It’s a gift from Lucy.” I really thought after Lucy kissed me that we might have a chance, but the next day, when she wasn’t drunk, she acted like she never wanted to speak of the incident again. As if kissing me was the worst thing she’d ever done in her life.
“Lucy gave you this?” he repeats.
“Yes. I feel the same way—dumbfounded.”
“I don’t see her name on it.”
“She doesn’t think she’s good marriage material.”
“Maybe she thinks you’re not good marriage material,” Ernest counters.
I stop at the door to my office and spin back to my assistant. “Are you serious?”
“You’re a workaholic, somewhat short-tempered, don’t care much for other people’s opinions, like having your own way. Did I mention workaholic?”
“I’m not that bad.”
“You had a shower installed because you felt like it took too long to get to your townhouse which is a five-minute walk away.”
I frown. Everyone at the firm thought my shower idea was brilliant. Three more went in after mine was installed. “Are you complaining about your hours, Ernest?”
He throws up his hands. “No. I love working on Saturdays.”
“Good because this weekend, we’re going over the Patrie depos. I think I caught one of the brothers admitting he was intentionally decreasing the value of the stock to play into the hands of short sellers.”
“Sounds like the best time.” Ernest flops into his chair.
“I feel like that’s sarcasm, but I’m going to ignore it because that’s what I do.” I slam the door to my office shut and stomp over to my desk. Lucy giving me the list and Ernest complaining about work puts me in a sour mood. So what that I like to work? What else is there to do when the love of your life is ignoring your non-stop proposals for marriage?
The phone rings as I’m contemplating the unfairness of it all.
“It’s your uncle.” Ernest’s voice speaks over the intercom.
I ignore the phone and get up. Uncle Cristoff will keep calling until I go and see him. “Not a word, Ernest,” I warn when I leave the office. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him making a zipping motion across his lips.
Uncle Cristoff’s office is at the end of the floor, behind a set of solid cherry doors. I wave to his secretary, a lithe young thing of maybe twenty-five. He always replaces them before they’re thirty. “I’m old,” he told me once, “and having nice things to look at is my one weakness.”
Because Uncle Cristoff is the head of our family, I refrained from pointing out that he has a gambling addiction as well as a tendency to make terrible investments in the market. Good thing we Donovans have a buttload of money, or Uncle Cristoff would be living in a shack along the railroad tracks.
“Wyatt, my boy! Come in. Come in.” The old man
