Legally Wedded (Legally in Love Book 3)

by Griffith, Jennifer

  Josh blinked, as though it took effort to stop looking at her, and started filtering through his key ring. “I’m waiting for some paperwork. You know, school stuff.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m about ready to take a bulldozer to the financial aid office.”

  “You, too?” He stopped messing with his keys.

  “They’re my chief persecutors.” She sighed. She was exaggerating about the bulldozer, but not much.

  “Right?” He looked at her like they’d just forged some kind of bond. The light in his face drew her full attention. “I mean, who do they think they are, playing God with our futures?” He took a step toward her, energy filling his frame. She could feel the indignation of injustice coming off him. He must feel as strongly about this as she did.

  “A lot of it seems so arbitrary and, frankly, dissing the economically downtrodden.”

  “Exactly!” He took another step toward her. “It’s almost like you have to figure out a way to cheat the system to get what ought to be fair.”

  She sighed, and it felt heavy. “Do you know, if your parent makes over a certain amount of money, you can’t get financial aid—even if you’ve never taken a cent from her to pay for college? Does that seem right?”

  “Preach, sister.” He wagged his head back and forth. “I mean, if we’re over eighteen, aren’t we allowed to declare ourselves adults and financially emancipated? When does it end?”

  “Twenty-four.” While baking on the beach today, Morgan researched the rules the financial aid clerk foisted on her yesterday. Every new one she read was a kick in the gut.

  “Precisely.” Josh shook his head. “I was trying to wait it out, myself. Couldn’t stand the delay any longer.”

  So, that meant he was still under twenty-four—and dealing with parents and finances and a strong desire to finish school, too. He looked pretty frustrated at the situation. Maybe they did have something in common.

  “You wait long?”

  “Just since I was nineteen, when my dad decided to disown me for not wanting to be a plumber.”

  Morgan choked a little. “You’re not being serious.”

  “Dead serious.” He shook his head. “And speaking of dead, don’t suggest an untimely death. I’ve already mentioned it to him, and I’d be imprisoned immediately as the only suspect with motive.”

  She laughed a half laugh. Poor guy. It sounded like maybe his dad was his chief antagonist—and that would be far worse than Resistencia and her army of automatons at the financial aid office. Her heart went out to him.

  “I’m racking my brain to figure out some way around it—besides the bulldozer.” She kind of couldn’t believe she was sharing this personal stress with a total stranger. Might not be prudent. But tuition was almost due, and it sounded like he might be in the same soup as she was. Maybe he’d have some insight.

  “I’ve been the rounds on this. Believe me. It seems like, short of petitioning Congress, the only solution is either to get married or resort to identity theft.” He half-punched the brick wall, looking frustrated. “See, the way I figure it, if I could find an illegal alien whose fake ID shows he’s been orphaned…”

  Morgan lowered her voice and looked back and forth surreptitiously. “Shhh. I might know a guy. After all, I’ve been living at Estrella Court a while now. Good place for contacts.”

  At this, Josh let out a good, hearty laugh. “I’m half-serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “You might come in handy.” He raised an eyebrow and looked her up and down once again. This sent her spinning wildly into a self-conscious shell. She tugged a towel from her bag and wrapped it around herself. He looked slightly disappointed. He opened up his mailbox, took out some pieces of mail, and wadded up the pizza coupon. They were done here, and he started walking toward the apartments.

  “But seriously.” She hoisted her tote bag up onto her shoulder and started walking toward her apartment. “Why go the route with a felony when you could just qualify for grants by proposing to your girlfriend?” They strolled through the courtyard portion of Estrella Court, past the dead landscaping plants and live weeds. “That seems like the better route, and ends with a kiss and a big fat check.” Tory would be astonished that Morgan had mustered the nerve to ask about his girlfriend status, even in this oblique way.

  “Not really feasible.”

  Vagueness. Not satisfying at all. With all the courage her soul could dredge up she asked the follow up question, even though her cheeks burned as the words came out. “Why not?”

  Josh stopped beside Morgan at her door. “Well, she’s out of the country—for a year.” This seemed to make him sober. “And she’s the academic type, wants to wait until we’re both done with all our schooling before we make any big decisions.”

  Right. Morgan’s heart deflated. The heart which she’d foolishly allowed to expand in the last five minutes of talking—actually talking!—with Josh Hyatt and seeing his smile and the way his eyes had lingered on her face. He had a girlfriend. A serious one. They’d talked marriage. She’d postponed it, but he’d been in deep enough that he’d brought up the subject. It was stupid of Morgan to even let a cubic centimeter of helium float her balloon of hope.

  She’d better not show how bummed she was. “Well, then, you’ll just have to find some girl as financially desperate as you are who’s willing to fake a sham marriage for the next year, or else you’re basically stuck with either patricide or ID theft.” She gave her most nonchalant shrug, hoping he wouldn’t put two and two together that she was in a financially desperate bind as well and realize she was throwing herself at him.

  Meanwhile, the outrageous electricity bill she’d picked up at the mailbox was burning a hole in her hand, and she hoped he didn’t see it, or hear the distant sound of frogs in the sand, mocking her with their empty croaks.

  “Well, if you run across any desperate friends, introduce me.” He smirked, and she went into her apartment, flooded with a mixture of relief and disappointment—and fighting the instinct to be hurt.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Josh splashed cold water on his face. He wished it were ice water. And he needed a full shower of it after standing there next to that swimsuit model, with all her sympathy and good humor about his dilemma, looking like she’d stepped right off the cover of a magazine to stare into the depths of his soul.

  But it was weird. When the conversation ended, and he’d had such a rush from it and how funny and sharp she was while looking so gorgeous, she’d looked a little sad. He didn’t know why. Women—what man ever understood them? If you have any desperate friends, introduce me. That’s what he’d said. How could that bug her?

  Well…

  He shook himself. He was over-thinking it. Better not allow himself to notice her too much. She was way too fresh, and his wounds were pretty raw from saying goodbye to Brielle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be tempted to go on some kind of secretive, behind-Brielle’s-back rebound and possibly hurt the girl.

  Ha. As if. As if a girl like that could be hurt by Josh. She surely had stadiums full of men lining up to get a chance at her. He was just flattering his own ego.

  The truth was, he used to have to worry about things like that—back when he was Joshua Hyatt, heir to Hyatt Holdings. Now he was a penniless guy at the bottom of nobody’s totem pole yet. The kind of guy girls should see a play at your own risk label affixed to.

  Not that he was a total loser. After his dad pretty much kicked him to the curb, forcing him to drop out of Clarendon, Josh hadn’t just sat around playing video games for the next three years. He’d had a full-time job, even though minions from Hyatt Holdings had been working against him when he was first trying to find one, poisoning the well at any job interview Josh had set up—until he finally got his current position as the biologist’s assistant at the water treatment plant, counting bacteria through a microscope all day.

  When Bronco Hyatt went on a search and destroy mission, he didn’t mess around. It wa
sn’t entirely impossible that Bronco was behind this whole financial aid roadblock Josh kept running into—and would keep running into until the government didn’t let Bronco use that same tactic anymore.

  Man! Twenty-four! Like the girl at the mailbox said, he had to be twenty-freaking-four to not be tied to those apron strings anymore. Boggled the mind. That was still two whole years off. Brielle wouldn’t seriously wait another two full years for him to even start on the foreign policy credits he needed. He’d already postponed classes for three, and she was not exactly the most patient person he’d ever met, not that she was chomping at the bit to move their relationship forward in the way Josh wanted to, but she did want them to be together—working side by side. And that was close to the same thing, close enough for Josh for now.

  Two more years. He punched the wall.

  Worse, that letter from the mailbox was waiting for him. He couldn’t open it while he’d been standing there talking to the hot girl. A man should be happy to do any number of things while a girl in a swimsuit was standing there watching him, but opening bad news from the federal government was not one of them.

  Because in his heart, he knew the letter held nothing but bad news.

  Josh eyed the brown government envelope on the ugly brass and glass table. He could almost hear it singing a funeral dirge at him, mocking his struggle.

  He went to the fridge and popped open a Coke. Then he sat down at the table across from it, staring at the letter while he sipped the cold drink and thought about the consequences of either outcome.

  If it had good news, he’d be paying tuition, starting classes, moving—ultimately—toward life with Brielle. Along with that, he’d be showing his dad and all his fear-riddled satellites that Josh Hyatt didn’t need them. He could make his way in life just fine without Hyatt money.

  And without becoming a plumber.

  Not that he had a huge problem with plumbing. But he’d tried it. He’d done some in his last apartment for the landlady when pipes burst in a freak winter freeze. He sort of had a gift for it. But it sure wasn’t the thing that made his heart go pitter-pat—not like it did for a girl standing in front of him in a swimsuit, with her funny lines and her willingness to conspire to help him solve his problem. Ha. What a good sport. She must be fighting off the hordes daily, which was why her truck looked like a battering ram. Were those curves all natural?

  Never mind that. He shoved himself back from the table and went into the spare bedroom where he had the stuff he was working on.

  Into the big composting barrel he poured the dregs of his Coke. There. The acid of that would eat a hole in every old newspaper and potato peel he’d thrown in.

  Then he went to his workbench. It wasn’t a hobby he talked much about, not lately at least. He’d mentioned it to Brielle offhand a couple of times when she’d seen his setup in the garage of his last apartment while she was visiting from Portland.

  “What are you, a moonshiner?” she’d asked half-jokingly.

  Ha, ha. He’d brushed it off. Not every guy had a hobby of what basically amounted to modern day alchemy—developing bacteria that turns kitchen compost into crude oil. Brielle was pure Oregonian, and the only acceptable fuel besides wind or solar for a lot of his state-mates was used french fry oil. He never knew when somebody was going to freak out on him for doing genetic engineering, a taboo word these days.

  A glance through his microscope showed the bacteria had mutated slightly. Just not enough yet. He’d need more testing.

  An hour later, Josh wiped his hands off and washed up. That letter almost hummed at him from the table. For a guy who checked the mailbox obsessively for that particular piece of mail, he sure was being a chicken about opening it.

  Finally, he ratcheted up his manhood and opened the letter.

  And then dropped it in the trash in utter dejection.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Morgan went to her fridge and took out another apple from the tree at home and bit hard. She shouldn’t be hurt. It wasn’t a rejection of her. He didn’t know she was desperate—maybe more desperate than he was himself. He was just being polite. What if he’d said, Sweetheart, you look desperate? That would’ve been worse.

  She was being irrational.

  She should focus on the fact he didn’t see through her awkward joke that could have been construed as a come-on, think of that instead, and be relieved he didn’t say something like, “Oh? Are you offering?”

  Heavens. That would have been mortifying. This route—rejection—was far less embarrassing than being transparent. Because, if she was truthful with herself, she sort of meant it.

  An agonized groan rose in her throat. Geez, he was gorgeous. So, so, so handsome. And that smile, it went arrow-straight to her heart.

  And he had a girlfriend. Boom! End of story. End of crush. It had to be.

  One crunch into the apple, Morgan heard the front door slam. In a second, Tory was at her side, panting.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “What?”

  “You, Morgan Clark, just stood talking to the best-looking guy in a hundred-mile radius for almost ten minutes. You! This is a record.”

  “Please. Let’s not exaggerate. It couldn’t have been more than three minutes.”

  “It was ten. Believe me. I was hanging back, waiting it out in the truck because I didn’t want to interrupt, so I know. But seriously? If it was ten seconds instead of ten minutes, that’s still a record.”

  Sigh. Probably true. “We were just talking about financial aid stuff.”

  “You told him about losing your scholarship?”

  What? Tory knew? Morgan nearly dropped her apple. She’d been as vague as possible when talking to her sister about the situation, not wanting to worry her or to let her know how bad things had gotten. But she still didn’t know about the loan denial. Or the grant denial. Morgan could keep up appearances—at least until she figured out some kind of solution.

  “Don’t worry. Mom told me.”

  Mom. Great.

  “Forget that. What did Josh Hyatt say? He’s luscious.”

  It didn’t matter how luscious Josh Hyatt was or wasn’t. It was irrelevant to Morgan’s life. “He has a girlfriend.” And he’d pretty much told Morgan she wasn’t good enough to be considered on his search-list of desperate women.

  Tory deflated. “No.”

  “It’s serious.” Morgan nodded, resigned to the sad truth. She tossed Tory an apple from the fridge and they both crunched a bite of sorrow in concert.

  But in a second, Tory perked up. “Wait. You asked him about his girlfriend?” She shook herself. “What has this guy done to you? You’re talking—to a guy.”

  Morgan shrugged one shoulder and kicked off her flip-flops. “Probably my soul instinctively knew he was unavailable and therefore zero threat.” She told Tory what Josh had said about his girlfriend.

  “Oh, please. If he wanted to seal the deal with her, he would have. She’d have a ring on her finger. If they were serious, she wouldn’t be leaving him—for a year.” Tory huffed. “She’s an idiot. And she deserves to have her man stolen if she’s stupid enough to leave a guy as mind-blowingly gorgeous as that up for grabs. Don’t hesitate for a second, Morgan. He’s not committed. Snag him.”

  Morgan turned her back and looked out the sliding door onto the sad excuse for a deck off the kitchen. Tory answered her phone.

  It figured. The one guy in the world she didn’t completely clam up around, and more attractive than a French Silk Chocolate pie with real whipped cream, and he wasn’t available. At least not available to someone as non-predatory as Morgan was. Ha! The very thought of Morgan stealing some other girl’s boyfriend. As if.

  ***

  Morgan headed across town in her truck, hoping the engine wouldn’t cut out and strand her, making her late for her appointment with Professor Wyeth to see if she could work out some arrangement where she could borrow a copy of his textbook from him or someone else. She was determined to
make this work somehow.

  Her phone rang.

  “Sweetums!” It was Morgan’s mother. “I’m just so glad you finally picked up.”

  “I’ve been at work, Mom. Sorry.” Morgan had the ankle bruises to prove it. “Everything all right?” Mom usually only called when things were not all right. On good days, she waited for her daughters to make the call.

  “Oh, dearie. I wish I had better news.”

  “What is it?” Morgan pulled into the parking lot near the Van Cleef Accounting Building and heard a sad little woof in the background. The dog. “Nothing wrong with Nixie, is there?” Mom loved that dog more than life itself.

  “I’m afraid so. They’ve found a cancer in her. It’s either operate or let her go.”

  Morgan closed her eyes and leaned up against the railing to the building’s front steps. “There’s no other choice?” How was Mom going to pay for dog surgery? Sell her own organs?

  “I’m afraid not, but the vet says Nixie has a very good shot if she gets the surgery now. If we wait even a week, things don’t look so good.”

  She asked the golden question. “Will the vet take a credit card?”

  “You know I don’t have one.” Mom sounded scared. Morgan hadn’t known, but now that she thought about it, Mom’s credit probably was shot, since those numbers took seven years to repair. “I’m not sure how I’m going to do it.” Her voice trembled. “I don’t know how I can live without Nixie.”

  Morgan swallowed hard. She ran a hand through her hair and sat down on the cement steps. “Mom, I know how important Nixie is to you. And you wouldn’t be calling if you had any other choice.”

  “So you’ll help?” Mom’s voice came like a tiny breath.

  “I saved all my tips from this summer. You can have any of them you need.”

  A little sob echoed through the phone. “I’m so sorry, Morgan. I’d never ask in any other circumstances. But—it’s Nixie.” Next came a full-on hiccupping sob. “Thank you so much.”

  Morgan leaned her head against the metal railing. No sense going up to see the professor now. No reason. She’d be dropping not only his class but all of her classes.