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I put down the container. My Blind Willie album was on shuffle, and I
really should have fucked Logan, just for fun. We didn’t have to get
married. I could have reached under his shirt. Let him put his hand under
mine. Leaned back so he was on top of me. Wrapped my legs around him
and pushed against his erection. I could have said yes, I’ll be your wife
now, for one hour. Let’s fake it ‘til we make it, then forget it.
My phone jolted me out of the fantasy. It was Bianca. I shouldn’t have
answered, but it wasn’t like dreaming about Logan was helpful.
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, thank goodness!” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“You have an email from Ningbo. They need a pocket placement
approval for the Raquel tee tonight.”
Bianca didn’t know what to look for, so she couldn’t sign off. Of course
they needed it tonight, or they’d miss their delivery calendar.
And of course I’d approve it. Otherwise, it would take another day to fix
it and tick tock.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Good. See you tomorrow!”
I hung up and opened my laptop. I found the email and the photo of the
T-shirt with the butterfly on the pocket.
APPROVED.
There were seventy-five more emails.
I’d told Logan I was scared to lose what I had.
But what did I have? This shit? This garbage wasn’t what Daddy had
meant when he wanted me to honor the name.
I closed the laptop.
Where was the risk? In marrying Logan? Or not trying to get the
company back?
Logan and I had spoken when we agreed to meet. Was he calling from
his office? Home? Cell? I pulled out my phone and found the number. All I
had to do was call it.
And get married to Mr. Traditional.
“Fake married,” I reminded myself.
My real husband wouldn’t try to own my identity. He wouldn’t want his
slippers out and my legs spread. He’d be a partner in everything, just as my
parents had been to each other.