Page 4 of The Marriage Clause

"Likewise. Very informative morning." He gives me a wink, then shoots Everett a look that seems to carry a whole conversation I can’t decode.

"You were just leaving. Remember?" Everett says.

Levi chuckles, shoves his hands in his pockets, and strolls down the hallway without a care in the world and no urgency in his step.

And then it’s just Everett Kauffman and me—alone... no buffer. Him towering. Me holding a mug of coffee that’s now half-empty because I’ve been spilling it everywhere like a walking catastrophe.

For one horrible second, I think he’s going to fire me. The thought lands like a punch—immediate and so very final.

"Forget what you heard," he says instead.

"Already forgotten."

I’m lying, of course. He knows I’m lying, too. I know he knows. We’re both standing here pretending this is a productive conversation.

His eyes drop to the mug. "Is that my coffee?"

I look down at the sad, half-spilled cup in my hand. "It was."

His jaw tightens—the tiniest flinch, like I’ve said something he wasn’t expecting. Not a smile. Everett doesn’t smile. But it’s the closest thing I’ve seen in weeks.

"How many sugars?"

"One and a half."

He takes it from my hand. Our fingers brush, and I pretend not to notice.

"Interesting choice," he says, and walks back into his office.

No grimace this time.

Which is either progress or a sign that he’s so distracted by his impending marital doom that he’s lost the ability to taste anything. I’ll take it either way because at least he didn’t fire me on the spot for spying on him.

I walk back to my desk and sit down slowly, like my body is rebooting one limb at a time.

Everett Kauffman needs a wife. He has weeks. All eight siblings lose everything if he doesn’t find one.

And he said I was off limits.

I stare at the papers I’m supposed to organize. The letters blur.

What did Levi call him? Tin Man.

It fits. Everett walks around like someone installed a steel door where his heart should be. All logic, all control, and perfectly neutral expressions.

Except for that growl when Levi asked if I was single.

I shake it off. Whatever that was—anger, possessiveness, reflex—it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have heard any of this.

But one thought keeps circling, refusing to go quiet.

Everett Kauffman needs a wife. And fast.

Saturday morning, and I’m pulling into the Brookhaven parking lot with a cardboard drink tray and a white bakery box balanced on one arm. Fall has come and the parking lot is full of red and orange leaves falling from the trees.

"Good morning, Aria," Gladys, the head nurse, says when I push through the double doors. "He’s already asking if you’re coming today.

That makes me smile and wince at the same time.