CLAUSE 6: SCHEDULING & AVAILABILITY
6.1 Primary Obligation. Party B (Monroe) acknowledges that her role under this Agreement constitutes her primary professional obligation. All other employment is strictly prohibited for the duration of the Term without prior written consent from Party A (Shaw).
6.2 On-Call Status. Party B shall remain on-call and available to Party A for all relationship-related activities, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Scheduled work commitments for Shaw Holdings may be superseded by relationship-appearance requirements at the sole discretion of Party A.
6.3 Mandatory Flexibility. Party B agrees to maintain a flexible schedule, understanding that Party A may require her presence for personal or public appearances with minimal advance notice. All reasonable efforts must be made to accommodate such requests.
— Clause 6, the Matrimonial Cohabitation and Non-Disclosure Agreement.
***
Malachai's question hangs in the air between us.
'Will you go out with me?'
It bounces around my skull like echoes in an empty room. Malachai Shaw is asking me out. Malachai Shaw wants to go out with me. I've got to refuse. The carbonara thing felt like a date but this? THIS IS A DATE!
"I can't go out with you!" I near-scream.
Malachai winces as several heads on the sidewalk turn in our direction. "Turn me down a little more gently next time, yeah?"
I blush. I've been doing a lot more of that lately; a not-so-charming combination of pasty skin and the ability to get embarrassed over damn near anything. Coupled with my red hair, I'm sure I look like an inflamed tomato.
I take a step back and adjust my coat, using the motion to hide my face. "I mean… I can't leave. I have work."
"And I cancelled—" he starts.
"I know," I cut in, the practical secretary in me taking over. "But I'm the one who has to reschedule all your meetings and make all those apology calls and send out messages and reorganise your calendar. It's a lot."
Malachai gives me a toothy grin. It's another look I've never seen on his face. Another one that completely disarms me. "Well, Ms. Monroe, have you heard of these wonderful, magical people called stand-in's? Y'know, the wizards you call in to work when someone has to take a sick day or go on vacation?"
"But I've never taken a sick day or gone on vacation," I counter.
He nods, his expression mock-serious. "A serious issue, I know. Which is exactly why we need to find out if your stand-in can actually do his job."
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. So, just like that, I have a work-free day. But spending it on a date with Malachai…
I don't know. And I'm not sure. The fact that there's so much uncertainty welling up in me makes me anxious. I don't like not knowing or being unsure; I like clear cut boundaries. Why does he want to go out with me? Impromptu dates aren't an explicit part of our contract and, outside of it, he's just… my boss.
As if he can hear the gears working in my skull, he says, "I don't know if it was just me, but it felt kinda awkward when your friend questioned us and we couldn't say a thing."
That immediately snaps me out of my mind-funk. "So this is because of Sloane?"
It all comes back to the facade. To the roles we're playing and how believable we need to be. He's thinking ahead.
"It's because," he says, his voice softening, "in the three years we've worked together, I'm only just realising how little we actually know about each other."
I shrug, a defensive gesture. "It wasn't necessary for us to know."
"And now it is." He takes a half-step closer, that earnest expression returning. "Juniper, it's a Monday morning and it's cold as balls out here. I really don't want to go back in there especially now that I've decided I deserve to slack off. Make my day by slacking off with me. Please?"
When he asks like that, how am I supposed to say no?
Besides, it's only logical. What kind of couple would we be if we didn't know anything about each other?
There are no underlying, confusing emotions behind this.
It isn't real.
My heart pounds a fierce, traitorous rhythm against my ribs. My voice comes out a mere whisper. "Yes."
One second, my feet are on the cold concrete. The next, Malachai is sweeping me up and twirling me around, the laughter shaking his chest vibrating right through me. I let out a squeal of surprise, and he quickly sets me down. His face is flushed, his eyes sparkling with unbounded joy.
He smooths down a loose strand of his perfect hair, looking somewhat breathless. "Sorry. I… I don't know what came over me."
If no one was staring before, they're definitely staring now. And if I looked like an inflamed tomato before, now I'm a full-blown fire hydrant; bright red from my neck to the tips of my hair.
My legs feel wobbly, but I keep my tone neutral. "If you're that excited, you must have something cool planned."
Cool? What am I, eighteen?
Malachai's grin brightens by a few hundred watts. "Oh, I'd say it's pretty fucking cool. If I may…" He holds out his hand.
With my heart in my throat, knots in my stomach, and my emotions doing cartwheels in the spaces between, I take it.
He links our fingers together so that each of mine is slotted perfectly between each of his. His hand is warm, so warm it's damn near easy to forget it's still winter. My pale, slender fingers look almost fragile nestled against his strong, tanned ones. Contrasting, yet inseparable in their union.
He starts leading me down the street. I don't need to be one of the curious pedestrians to know that, with me in my woolly coat and him in his dark, tailored jacket, our hands clasped together, we look like a picture-perfect couple.
"Where are you taking me?" I ask above the hum of traffic.
"Just around the corner. I've got a car waiting."
"No, I mean where are we going. For our… date."
The word feels so strange on my tongue. Facade or not, I haven't been on one of these since Liam, and going on one now, with my boss? It somehow feels even more surreal than demanding he marry me.
Malachai huffs out a laugh. "I can't tell you that. It's against my religion to spoil a surprise."
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I bite it down.
So Malachai Shaw is a wisecracker. Who knew?
"And what religion is that?"
"That's a secret."
"You might as well tell me now. What if we get there and I don't like it?"
Malachai stops us beside a familiar black Mercedes idling at the curb. He opens the door for me. "Impossible."
I don't get in. "Oh, I don't know. What if you take me to a seafood restaurant? You'll find out the bad way that I'm not a big fan of oysters."
His eyes are still twinkling. "I don't think it'll be that bad if I don't have to sit through a lecture on the inhumane treatment of fish."
"I have a lecture on that prepared, actually."
He chuckles. "No, I'm not taking you to a seafood restaurant."
"Where, then?"
"Could you just trust me?" he asks.
I joke, "It's against my religion to trust men in dark suits."
He rolls his eyes in a fond, exasperated way. "Just get in the car, Juniper."
My heart kicks my ribs. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to him saying my first name. "Fine, fine," I concede, sliding into the plush interior.
Malachai slides in beside me. The car is spacious enough to sit apart, but our knees touch.
He shuts the door and tells the driver, "You know where to go."
Excitement bubbles up beneath my skin. I suddenly feel too warm for my coat. There's enough space in the back for me to scoot away without a problem, but I don't.
Malachai's hand finds mine again.
This isn't real. This isn't real.
I close my eyes and force myself to remember: the cold air of indifference as he sat back in his office chair, the aloofness, his monotone drone as he asked, 'And why, Miss Monroe, should I marry you?'
Malachai's hand squeezes mine, and the memories are chased away by newer ones: his hands framing my cheeks when I was near tears, the fierceness in his tone as he defended me from my father's insults, the beautiful, unguarded smile on his face just after he released me from that dizzying spin.
This isn't real. This isn't real.
None of this is real.