Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“What’s this?” I ask.
He’s holding out a fancy little gift bag, the tall skinny shape a dead giveaway of what’s inside.
Sure enough, I pull out a bottle of Champagne.
I give him a puzzled smile. “Are we celebrating?”
“I thought we might. We made it past our halfway point.”
“Of what?” I ask, studying the bottle. I don’t know Champagne all that well, but I know this fancy-pants label wasn’t cheap.
“Halfway,” he repeats. “Of our prenup requirement. You moved in August twentieth. The prenup doesn’t stipulate it has to be three calendar months, which means we’re in the clear on November twentieth.” He taps the bottle and smiles. “That means we’re more than halfway through this mess.”
This mess.
“Wow,” I say, struggling to keep my smile on my face. “You certainly have those dates at the ready. Do you have all the key milestones marked on your calendar?”
“Well, yes,” he says, sounding puzzled. “Don’t you?”
I nod, because marking my calendar with the end date of this situation was one of the first things I’d done upon learning of my brother’s stupid trap. But honestly? I haven’t looked at it in weeks.
Colin, on the other hand, apparently has the dates memorized.
He frowns. “You don’t like the Champagne?”
“No, I do,” I say, tracing a finger over the label. “It’s just a bit jarring to realize that someone is counting down the days until they never have to see you again.”
“That’s not what I said. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
Someone has to—you’re not exactly great about putting your own words in your mouth.
“Will you have a glass with me?” I say, starting to move around him to put it in an ice bucket.
He reaches out and grabs my hand. “Charlotte, wait.”
For some reason, the touch makes the pain even more acute, and I look up to meet his gaze, trying mightily to keep the hurt out of my eyes, and not at all sure I’m succeeding.
“What?” I ask.
He says nothing.
His gaze drops to our joined hands, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he frowns, as though surprised to realize he’s touching me. His grip tightens ever so slightly as though wanting to pull me closer and fighting the urge.
Don’t fight it, I make a silent plea.
There’s something here—something between us that goes beyond a green card, my trust fund requirements, and a prenup. Every day that’s passed, every morning we share eggs and coffee, every time I manage to make him laugh, I’m more certain that Rebecca’s not the one for him.
Every day, I’m more desperate for him to see it.
“Charlotte—”
Remember a few weeks ago when we had an almost-moment, and the doorbell rang? Well, there’s a repeat. Except this time, it’s a phone call that has him jumping back from me.
Moment. Over.
“Sorry,” I mutter, reaching for my phone. I answer it, mainly as an opportunity to turn away from Colin.
“Hey, Kurt.” I tuck the phone under my ear and place the Champagne in the fridge, fairly certain neither Colin nor I will feel like opening it anymore. “What’s up?”
“Char, thank God you picked up,” he says in relief.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, because his tone is dramatic even for him, and my brain is already filtering through worst-case scenarios: We’re losing a big client. One of the senior team members gave notice. Fire. Flood. Some sort of debacle nightmare.
“I just got the strangest call,” Kurt says on a rush. “You remember how when you bought your apartment, you didn’t want your name to be on the deed because of the tricky nature of your marriage, so Lewis and I are the official owners, and you paid us in cash?”
“Yes, Kurt, of course I remember,” I say, panic making me impatient.
There are only a handful of reasons someone would be inquiring into my housing situation in San Francisco, and none of them are good.
I hear muffled voices and recognize Lewis’s low timbre muffled against what is probably Kurt’s hand over the receiver.
“Kurt!” I say loudly. “Who called?”
Colin is watching me now, looking up from the pile of mail I hadn’t gotten around to sorting yet. He knows enough about my housing arrangement with Kurt to look as wary as I feel.
“Charlotte. Hi.” It’s Lewis who comes on the other end.
I close my eyes. “Let me guess. It’s bad news, and Kurt didn’t want to be the one to tell me.”
“Bad news is not his forte,” Lewis says in his usual calm voice, though he sounds grim. “He’ll make it even worse than it already is.’
“It’s that bad?”
“Immigration Services called us, Char. Some guy named Gordon Price wanted to know the nature of our relationship with you, most specifically, the living arrangements at your address.”
“Oh God,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Oh God. What did you say?”
“We went with the script we all discussed for this type of situation. That it was our second home, and that you were a friend who had a key, and that we knew you stayed there sometimes, but that we couldn’t speak to the nature of your personal life …”