Marriage With Benefits(12)

“I do.” Abuelo, though fearsome at times, loved her in his way. They just had different definitions of happy. “I’m grateful for your guidance.”

He evaluated her for a moment, his wrinkles deepening as he frowned. “I don’t pretend to understand your avid interest in hands-on charity work, but perhaps after you’ve established your household, you may volunteer a few hours a week. If your husband is supportive.”

She almost laughed. “Lucas and I have already come to an agreement about that. Thanks, though, for the suggestion. By the way, we’re going to have a small civil ceremony with no guests. It’s what we both want.”

“You’re not marrying in the church?”

The sting in his tone hit its mark with whipping force. She’d known this part couldn’t be avoided but had left it for last on purpose. “Lucas is Protestant.”

And divorce was not easily navigated after a Catholic ceremony. The plan was sticky enough without adding to it.

“Sit,” he commanded, and with a sigh, she settled into the creaky leather chair opposite the desk.

Now she was in for it—Abuelo would have to be convinced she’d made these decisions wisely. In his mind, she was clearly still a seventeen-year-old orphan in need of protection from the big, bad world. She put her game face on and waded into battle with her hardheaded grandfather, determined to win his approval.

After all, everything she knew about holding her ground she’d learned from him.



Four days, two phone calls and one trip to notarize the contracts and apply for a marriage license later, Lucas leaned on the doorjamb of Matthew’s old house—correction, his and Cia’s house, for now anyway—and watched Cia pull into the driveway. In a red Porsche.

What an excellent distraction from the text message his brother had just sent—We lost Schumacher Industrial. Lucas appreciated the omission of “thanks to you.”

Matthew never passed around blame, which of course heightened Lucas’s guilt. If Wheeler Family Partners folded, he’d have destroyed the only thing his brother had left.

As Cia leaped out of the car, he hooked a thumb in the pocket of his cargos and whistled. “That’s a mighty fine point-A-to-point-B ride, darlin’. Lots of starving children in Africa could be fed with those dollars.”

“Don’t trip over your jaw, Wheeler,” she called and slammed the door, swinging her dark ponytail in an arc. “My grandfather gave me this car when I graduated from college, and I have to drive something.”

“Doesn’t suck that it goes zero to sixty in four-point-two seconds, either. Right, my always-in-a-hurry fiancée?” His grin widened as she stepped up on the porch, glare firmly in place. “Come on, honey. Lighten up. The next six months are going to be long and tedious if you don’t.”

“The next six months are going to be long and tedious no matter what. My grandfather is giving us a villa in Mallorca as a wedding present. A villa, Wheeler. What do I say to that? ‘No, thanks, we’d prefer china,’” she mimicked in a high voice and wobbled her head. That dark ponytail flipped over her shoulder.

The times he’d been around her previously, she’d always had her hair down. And had been wearing some nondescript outfit.

Today, in honor of moving day no doubt, she’d pulled on a hot-pink T-shirt and jeans. Both hugged her very nice curves, and the ponytail revealed an intriguing expanse of neck, which might be the only vulnerable place on Cia’s body.

Every day should be moving day.

“Tell your grandfather to make a donation, like I told my parents. How come my family has to follow the rules but yours doesn’t?”

“I did. You try telling my grandfather what to do. Es imposible.” She threw up her hands, and he bit back a two-bulldozers-one-hole comment, which she would not have appreciated and wouldn’t have heard anyway because she rushed on. “He’s thrilled to pieces about me marrying you, God knows why, and bought the reunion   story, hook, line and sinker.”

“Hey now,” Lucas protested. “I’m an upstanding member of the community and come from a long line of well-respected businessmen. Why wouldn’t he be thrilled?”

“Because you’re—” she flipped a hand in his direction, and her engagement ring flashed “—you. Falling in and out of bimbos’ beds with alarming frequency and entirely too cocky for your own good. Are we going inside? I’d like to put the house in some kind of order.”

Enough was enough. He tolerated slurs—some deserved, some not—from a lot of people. Either way, his wife wasn’t going to be one of them.