Burn for You

Without thinking, I touched the scars on his jaw. He closed his eyes and made a soft noise like he was in pain.

“What are these scars from?”

My question broke whatever spell he’d been under. He dragged in a deep breath and reluctantly released me. With a cruel twist to his lips, he muttered, “A man-eating shark.”

He turned away and raked both hands through his hair, and I knew that mysterious response was as good as I was getting.

Flustered and unsteady, I hastily scooped my hair clip from the floor. I had all my hair stuffed into it in record-setting time, though I probably looked like an escapee from the mental asylum, goggle-eyed, wild haired, shaking and sweating. I smoothed a hand down the front of my white chef’s coat, which did absolutely nothing to calm me, but at least wicked the moisture from my palm.

I said, “Well. That was . . .”

My mind was as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.

Without turning around, Jackson blew out a hard, shuddering breath. Over his shoulder he said, “Get the contract reviewed by an attorney as soon as possible. Send the invoice to me. And I need to meet your mother.”

He opened the door and was gone.

I sank slowly into my chair and allowed my knees to stop knocking and my heart to slow down before I went out to see about the meat.

The next day I visited an attorney in town who looked at Jackson’s contract for a long time while the wrinkles on his forehead multiplied faster than rabbits. More than once he glanced up at me across from him as I nervously twisted my fingers together, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a continent.

Judging strictly from his expression, he thought I might be wearing a hidden camera.

“Miss Hardwick,” he began carefully, pushing the contract toward me across his desk as if he thought it might burst into flames. “This is . . . unusual.”

My laugh was closer to a donkey’s bray. “You don’t say!”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like this before,” he said, disturbed. Under the fluorescent lights, his bald head glowed like a streetlamp. “I assume that you’re entering into this agreement due to . . .” he coughed politely into his hand. “Financial problems?”

“Bingo. So give me the bad news.”

He looked startled. “You’re marrying a man solely for his money. What other bad news do you need?”

He was lucky this was on Jackson’s dime, because that little zinger would have made me get up and walk out before he could dispense whatever sage advice he’d be dispensing.

“I’m talking about the contract. What’s bad in there for me?”

He gave me a look like I’d completely failed to listen to his first question.

I sighed. “I know. You can stop judging me now, okay? Just tell me if there’s anything in the contract we should counter. For instance, the part where it talks about me not having to have sex with him. Is that in order?”

It was obvious I was shortening the poor attorney’s life span. No one blinked that rapidly who was long for this earth.

“Yes,” he said after a rough throat clearing. “But we should counter for more money. One million dollars for five years is only two hundred thousand dollars per year. That works out to”—he did a mental calculation faster than I could stand up—“five hundred fifty-five dollars per day. Give or take. In my professional opinion, that’s not nearly enough compensation for the length of time involved. You should be asking for five million at least, ideally double that.”

I waved an impatient hand in the air. “The amount stays the same. That’s not the important part.”

He leaned back in his chair in slow motion, his liver-spotted hands spread flat over his desk. I imagined he was trying not to fall over in shock. “I don’t concur, Miss Hardwick. When you’re marrying for money, money is the only important part.”

I said, “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it for me.”

When my lips twisted, he sorrowfully shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Hardwick, but my advice to you is not to sign this document. It isn’t in your best interest. You could conceivably make one million dollars in five years with the income from your restaurant.”

Not in my wildest dreams, sir. And I don’t have that much time.

I drummed my fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. “Aside from the money, is there anything else in there I should worry about? Any language you want to tweak? Any offensive codicils we should remove? Anything?”

After examining my face in silence for what was definitely longer than polite, he said, “A few minor points. It’s very straightforward, actually, and fair, if such a word could be applied to this situation.”

“Good,” I said, standing. I couldn’t wait to leave. “Can you have the changes to me by tomorrow?”

He squinted up at me from behind his eyeglasses. “May I say something?”

“No.”

I could tell right away he was going to anyway, which he did.

“You’re an attractive young woman, Miss Hardwick. You also seem intelligent and pragmatic, a combination that in my experience is rarer than a unicorn sighting. There’s no need for someone like you to sell yourself short.”

I winced at his choice of words. He had the grace to look apologetic.

I said tightly, “Just have the changes to me by tomorrow,” and left, slamming the door behind me.

I had to lean against the wall in the corridor outside for a long time before my stomach settled enough to keep walking.

A few days later I had the finalized contract in hand. I decided to celebrate by having a mental breakdown.

I was facedown on my desk when the phone rang. Inconveniently, it kept on ringing, even when I ignored it and let it go to voice mail twice. After a short pause it started to ring again. I had the sense it was shouting at me, and I knew who was on the other end of the line before I even picked up.

“Hello?”

“Bianca. It’s Jackson.”

He sounded agitated. What a surprise. “As if I couldn’t tell from the growl.”

“Why weren’t you answering? I called the front desk and Pepper insisted you were in your office.”

I added Pepper to the list of my employees I was going to kill. “I am in my office. I’m just . . . thinking.”

There was a short pause. “That sounds ominous.”

“I had an attorney review the contract.”

Another pause, then his voice, dry as bone, “Please contain your excitement. I don’t think my ego can handle such enthusiasm.”

I sighed, flopped back into my chair, and propped my feet up on my desk.

He demanded, “Talk to me.”

I fought a childish urge to stick my tongue out at the phone. “Just prewedding jitters, dear, nothing to worry about.”

His voice changed to the soft, stroking murmur he so rarely used. “Getting cold feet, are we?”

The intimacy in his voice raised gooseflesh on my arms, which I defiantly credited to the air-conditioning. “Are you deliberately talking about me in first-person plural pronoun to irritate me?”

“I only have to breathe in your presence to irritate you. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

I closed my eyes and spent a few seconds deciding where to start. “It’s a little overwhelming, this whole thing we’re doing. I never imagined getting married would be like applying for a line of credit.”