Page 7 of Merging Wright

“You’re bleeding.” My voice remains low as I slow my steps, quieting as if nearing a wild animal.

The heave of his chest continues. He snaps his head in my direction, eyes unfocused. With a shaky hand, he swipes his fingers through his hair and shifts to face me. His gaze roams my body.

I’m wearing flared black pants with a nude-colored shirt, although I’d have preferred baggy jeans and my old Converse shoes for riding comfort. I haven’t taken a road trip in ages and admit I’m a little excited at the prospect, despite the conditions surrounding it. My sister Mae recently went on the road trip of a lifetime, and while I was against her traveling across the country, the journey turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to her.

Mach is wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved Henley, looking rather sexy in casual attire. Apparently, I missed the memo on today’s dress code. His hair is raked through and through, mussing up the silver and ink combination. If I hadn’t known better from the bleeding knuckles, I’d suspect him of taking a woman against the side of this truck. Her fingers running through his hair. His hands touching her everywhere—

“The trip should take eight hours. If we stop once for lunch and maybe twice for gas, it won’t take more than nine total.”

And good morning to you, too, Mr. Wright.

His timetable is efficient and no more than an average workday. However, everything about this arrangement feels like anything but a typical day at the office. I already hate the lie we’ll need to tell Camilla Wright, his mother. I’ve spoken to her on occasion, answering Mach’s phone to piss him off when I’ve seen her name appear on the screen, and forcing him to speak with her.

“I have a weak bladder. I might need to stop more often.” I play his game of ignoring the bleeding elephant in the parking garage.

“Really?” He stares at me.

“You should know these things about your wife.” I can’t believe I’m standing here. Still upset that he tossed out the promise of partnership if I did this for him. I hate him a little more today.

“Well, we have eight hours to learn everything there is to know about each other.”

Yes, because eight hours builds the everlasting love necessary to a committed marriage.

Why am I standing here again?

Mach nods at the carry-on suitcase I’ve tugged behind me. “Is that it?”

I didn’t know what to pack, despite the itinerary memo he sent me yesterday afternoon in which he said only a few days would cover the major events. A funeral. A will reading. And getting back out of Dodge. Actually, the place we are headed is named Wrightwood, and I snorted at the similarity to his last name.

“Should you go wash off your hands? Or maybe have them looked at?” We’d need an urgent care as building management doesn’t employ a medic. Hardly anyone else is on the property other than the overnight security guard who directed me to this spot in the parking structure. At the very least, Mach needs some ice.

Ignoring my concern, Mach steps forward, reaches for the handle of my suitcase, and tugs the baggage toward the truck. I can haul my own luggage, thank you very much, I almost say and then decide against it. The small act of chivalry surprises me for some reason. The action seems strangely husband-like. If we’re going to pretend we are married, we may as well act like it.

I do a double take at the heavyweight pickup with its robin’s egg blue color and dated white panel along the bed while Mach hitches my suitcases into the truck bed. “We’re taking this?” Mach owns a convertible BMW, and I assumed we’d be driving the sporty car across state lines.

“Per instructions, yes.” He grits his teeth as he speaks while fiddling with securing my suitcase. “Only I can’t drive this thing.” He cranes his neck to glance over his shoulder at the driver’s seat. Once done with my case, he opens the driver’s door and holds out the keys to me.

“If you don’t mind. I have a few calls to make.”

I should protest. I should tell him where he can shove those keys and remind him I have calls to make. I’m giving up days in the office for this farce. For him. And now to be a chauffeur for his ass, despite how fine his backside looks in his fitted jeans . . .

Why is saying no to him so blasted hard?

Snatching the keys from his hand, I edge around him and am relieved to find the pickup is an automatic instead of a manual drive. It’s been decades since I’ve had to work a clutch, and in these heels, that quick-shift two-step needed to maneuver pedals would have been difficult but not impossible. Hiking myself into the driver’s seat, I reach for the door, but Mach’s hand remains on the frame.

“Thank you for doing this.” The quiet, sincere tone in his rough voice unsettles me. While his eyes avoid mine, a shiver still ripples over my skin.

And something tells me the second he closes this door, my life will forever be changed.

6

Playlist: “Lake Shore Drive” – Aliotta Haynes Jeremiah

(from Guardians of the Galaxy)

[Mach]

“Care to tell me why you were beating up this beautiful old truck?” Jane begins as we pull onto the nearly-empty street in the early darkness of a new day.