Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  But this…

  I’m at a loss.

  “Sorry,” I hear myself utter automatically. Anyone would know I’m being insincere from my voice. My husband, the only person I’ve ever given a view through the window into my soul, knew before I even said it.

  My mouth suddenly parched, I uncap my water and take a big drink. Then I suck in a breath and try to find my composure. While Caroline is checking something on her phone and Logan is riffling through papers and Stu is just sitting there with a surly look on his face.

  This case has officially become a nightmare.

  “So,” I begin, clearing my throat. “Since Caroline and Stu don’t have a prenup, community property law applies.”

  “Half of everything, huh?” Garnett scoffs, his eyes on his wife. “That’s how we’re going to play this?”

  “Actually,” I say, “Caroline wants to settle this as quickly and painlessly as possible—”

  Crossing his arms, Stu lets rip a snort so loud it’s unmistakably an attempt at interrupting me.

  “—and to that end is willing to be flexible and generous,” I finish without changing the volume or tone of my voice. Because you don’t shut down a boor by being louder than him. You do it by persisting.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Logan says, and I’m probably the only one who notices the flicker of irritation in his countenance, which confirms what I was already suspecting: he doesn’t like his client. “Obviously, the biggest issue is the current assets.”

  Quickly, I shuffle my papers, scrambling to go on the offense.

  But Logan beats me to it.

  “Between his business holdings, investments, and bank balances, Stu’s net worth is just over eight hundred million dollars. Caroline’s is just short of 150 million.” His cool, pale eyes lock in on me. The eyes that he’s always been able to use as a weapon, devastating me with just a glance. “I’m assuming you’re expecting to split the difference.”

  “Not at all,” I answer easily just as I find the financial statements, seeing that their numbers and ours pretty much match up. “Caroline doesn’t want any of Stuart’s money.”

  A loaded silence falls across the table. Logan arches his eyebrows, his skepticism apparent, while Garnett looks downright incredulous. Shooting a sideways glance at Caroline, I find her stoic and unreadable, as expected.

  “Since they’ve kept their finances separate,” I continue to the men across from me, “it’ll be easy enough to walk away with only what is theirs. A clean break, so to speak.”

  The way Logan’s face hardens hits me in the gut, squeezing my lungs with the knowledge that our minds just turned in the same direction. Clean and easy are not words that apply to us. No matter how you look at it, we’re a mess—a tangled, chaotic, and horrendous mess.

  “That sounds good in theory,” he states, “until you consider that Stu has been contributing a lot more over the years to what should’ve been shared expenses.”

  Oh, sheesh. So we’re going down that road now, are we?

  Fine.

  “Here are the numbers,” Logan says as he tugs a paper-clipped stack out from his file folder and leans over the table to place it in front of me, “compiled by his personal accountant. It goes back nineteen years, so it covers their entire marriage.”

  With gritted teeth, I skim the rows of figures. “Jewelry and handbags and clothes? A lot of these are clearly gifts. You’re expecting Caroline to repay him for those?”

  The father of my children doesn’t even bat an eye. “We haven’t had time to go over the list of and remove any items like that. But it’s doubtful that gifts account for more than ten percent of the total.”

  After throwing him a narrow look, I lower my attention back to the last page of the expense sheets. “Half of that total is less than half the difference of their liquid assets. Even deducting that, Stuart still comes out ahead. So there’s no reason for you to object to what we’re offering.”

  I raise my brows at the men across from me, waiting for another dodgy excuse. Even as Logan appears to hesitate, I don’t doubt for a minute that he’ll come up with something. Nor do I doubt that it’ll be infuriating.

  Except Stuart decides he’s kept his mouth shut long enough.

  “What about the two million I lent you to start Carne Consulting?” he asks, staring at his wife. “You never paid me back.”

  A stunned look passes over my client’s face, and it takes her a few seconds to respond. “You never said that was a loan. You gave me that money, free and clear.”

  “And then you turned it into a billion-dollar company,” Stu comments with a petulant grunt. “If anything, you owe me a settlement.”

  I can’t help the snort of disbelief that escapes me.

  Caroline’s eyes bug out. “Excuse me?”

  “Maybe,” I address Logan tightly, feeling my blood pressure rising, “as Mr. Garnett’s counsel, you could explain to him that without a contract establishing that money as an investment loan, he has no legal basis for that claim.”

  Calmly, as if I hadn't spoken, he says, “Stuart is willing to sign a settlement in exchange for fifty-one percent of Caroline’s stake in her company.”

  “Fifty-one percent? Are you nuts?” Caroline bursts out.

  “Did you think I’d let you get rid of me that easily, bunny?” Stu’s smile is smug and nasty, and the coldness in his eyes makes my skin crawl.

  “That’s an outrageous demand, and you know it,” I say to Logan, proud of how level I’m keeping my voice. I don’t know why he’s wasting my time like this. He can’t seriously expect Caroline to make Stu the biggest shareholder, effectively handing over her company to him.

  “If you want this quick and painless, that’s our best offer.” Leaning back in his chair, Logan picks up his pen and starts flipping it. I suddenly remember when I first noticed that habit of his—at another one of Hammer’s yell-at-the-associates meetings—and how it’d seemed like nervous fidgeting. Within minutes, I realized it was the opposite.

  I’m completely at ease right now, that little flick of his fingers shows.

  I’m in control, it spells when the pen spins and he catches it every time without even looking at it.

  You can’t faze me, and you can’t beat me, he’s saying as he continues to flip it.

  Well, I guess we’ll see about that. My client wants a divorce, and she’s willing to pay for it. Logan is doing his client a disservice by not making it clear that this squabbling is only delaying the inevitable.

  On my legal pad, I scrawl a question before sliding it toward Caroline. She glances and gives a quick nod.

  “Caroline is willing to pay back the two million plus interest,” I announce across the conference table. “That’s way more than Stuart is entitled to.”

  My ex starts to shake his head, his lips curved in a small smile, but again his client doesn’t seem to be on the same page as him.

  “Why do you want out so bad, bunny?” Stu asks abruptly. “Why the hurry?”

  Not giving Caroline a chance to respond, I click my tongue and say to Logan, “Please instruct your client that we’re not here to discuss anything except the settlement.”

  And at that, he stops flicking the pen, instead slapping it onto the table. “Please explain to yours that without understanding why she wants this divorce, my client is not going to—”

  “I don’t love you anymore, Stuart,” Caroline cuts in. “It’s that simple.”

  Ouch.

  Mentally cringing, I look down to avoid Logan’s gaze. Because I know what I’d see there would cut me to the core. This case—everything about this situation—just feels too damn personal.

  “I know you don’t want to drag this into court any more than I do,” my client goes on. “I’ll be flexible, but you have to be serious. You know I’ll never give you shares in Carne Consulting.”

  Focusing on Stu’s shuttered face and not my husband’s, I decide to add, “And rest assured that if we do en
d up in court, flexible and generous goes out the door. We’ll be pursuing everything Caroline is entitled to under the law.”

  Sensing Logan’s movement, I dare to look at him just as he sits upright again and starts to gather all of his papers together while saying, “Why don't we take a break to consult with our clients in private—”

  “Keep your money,” Garnett snarls all of a sudden. “Keep your shares. I don’t give a shit.”

  Pushing away from the table, he jerks to his feet and stalks off toward the cabin.

  “Whoa,” Logan calls after him, looking stunned. “Stu, hang on—”

  “Mr. Garnett,” I say loudly, “we still need to discuss the fixed assets—”

  “Not today.” Stuart yanks open the patio door and disappears inside.

  His jaw taut, Logan doesn’t spare us a word or a glance as he stuffs his documents into his briefcase. Then he rises and follows his client into the cabin.

  Caroline and I sit there in silence for a few long moments. Did that go well or not? I’m having a hard time deciding. Something tells me it’s premature to declare victory until we actually have Stuart Garnett’s signature on the settlement papers.

  “I’m not spending more than an hour on that damn golf course, then I’m heading to the spa,” my client says with a sigh. “Will you join me?”

  “Uhhh—” I look at her, unsure of how to respond. A trip to the spa sounds lovely and relaxing. Hanging out at the spa with my client? Less so.

  “My treat.” Caroline Carne flashes me her powerful smile, the one I’m sure she uses in boardrooms all over the world to get what she wants. “If we talk about the case, it’s a tax write-off, right?”

  With a small, polite laugh, I agree. Then I start to stuff papers into my bag, deciding this plan might be beneficial after all. Maybe at the spa, Caroline will let down her guard and trust me enough to tell me whatever it is she’s been keeping from me. Because I’d have to be an idiot to think she’s allowing Stuart to push her like this for no good reason.

  And hopefully whatever her secret is, it won’t hurt us. Lord knows I need all the help I can get at this point, to counterbalance the uphill struggle that is having my estranged husband as opposing counsel.

  I haven't seen the cool, professional Logan in so long, that version of him has become a stranger.

  How am I supposed to pretend not to know him when all I can think of is how it feels to have him claim me, possess me, invade me—to have his mouth on every last inch of my body?

  I feel branded as his.

  How am I supposed to hide that from the world?

  Chapter 13

  Logan

  When I enter the cabin and find Stu at the breakfast bar with a tumbler of brown liquid in his hand and a bottle of Glenlivet next to him on the counter, I step over there and set my briefcase down. Looking at my client, I throw my arms out, palms up, widening my eyes at him. It takes restraint to leave it at that, because what I want to do is shout, What the fuck, man?

  Because seriously. What the fuck was that? A calculated move? Or just a plain old temper tantrum? It sure as hell seemed like the latter.

  The last time I represented this man, I lost count of how many times I had to remind him that I couldn’t help him unless he allowed me to. Stuart Garnett is a reckless, impulsive, big-mouthed man-child. He’s like a preschooler with the vocabulary of a sailor.

  God damn Hammer for making me do this all over again.

  “Don’t start with me,” Stu says before downing an impressively large gulp of scotch.

  Brushing my hand across my mouth, I take a deep, calming breath. “Then how about you explain to me what just happened?”

  After a short, pinch-lipped silence, my client snaps, “What was I supposed to do? Let her keep going? Just sit there and take it while she fucking destroyed me?”

  A wave of gut-twisting sympathy catches me off guard. His anger and heartbreak are just too damn familiar. And I have no words of comfort for him.

  Crossing the rest of the way over to him, I sit down on the stool next to his. “It might be time to cut your losses.”

  Stu shakes his head. “Something’s not right. I mean, people don’t do this. Do they? Slap their spouse with divorce papers completely out of the blue?”

  I open my mouth to answer, though I don’t actually know what to say, but he doesn’t give me a chance to figure it out.

  “If something was wrong in my marriage,” he goes on, “I would’ve known. I would’ve seen this coming.” His brows go up. “Right?”

  After waiting long enough to be sure he actually expects a reply this time, I shrug and say, “Some people are good at hiding their feelings.”

  Stu grunts, clearly not satisfied, and my patience dissipates.

  “Caroline seems pretty sure about calling it quits,” I point out, because enough with the coddling; I’m talking to a goddamned adult here. “We need to focus on settling things in a way that you can live with.”

  My client stares into his glass, then tosses down the remainder. “I can’t live with anything except not losing her.”

  I close my eyes briefly, tamping down on my burst of frustration. “It might seem that way right now, but—”

  “So you’re over losing your wife?” Stu sneers at me. “You’ve moved on? Caroline told me she’s the one who left you.”

  What in the actual fuck? For way too many consecutive seconds, I’m too stupefied to do anything but blink at him. The questions come crashing down like an avalanche. How would Caroline know that? Why would she tell Stu? And why the hell is he making this conversation about me all of a sudden?

  Well, regardless, it’s none of his business. And since I can barely admit to myself the answers to those questions, I’m hardly going to share them with him of all people, am I?

  “I’m not gonna discuss my personal life with you, Stu,” I say in the same voice I use when one of my kids is being a little shit. “I’m your attorney.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, reaching for the liquor bottle. “Your performance out there was stellar. I’d never have guessed your relationship with her was anything but professional. It’s all bullshit, though, isn’t it? Or you’d actually be divorced by now.”

  Glaring at him, I grind my teeth so hard that pain shoots through my jaw. Fuck him.

  I get it. He’s trying to get a rise out of me as an outlet for his own misery. Trying to provoke me because I’m here and his wife is not. And I’m absolutely not going to take the bait. In fact, I should just walk away from this conversation. Right now.

  “We have three kids under the age of ten,” I hear myself saying, regret slicing me as soon as the words escape. “There are custody issues.”

  Stu’s eyes turn watery, his mouth quivering. “But did she ever tell you she doesn’t love you anymore? Huh?”

  Shit. I wince despite myself, despite how much I was just aching to punch him in the face, mollified by his obvious anguish. “Come on, man. This isn’t—”

  “You’d take her back in a heartbeat.” The nastiness in his tone is gone, leaving only naked hopelessness. “Bet you don’t know why she left you, either.”

  I heave a sigh. This conversation is definitely past its expiration date. Standing up, I clap Stu on the shoulder and say, “We’ll talk more later.”

  Then I pick up my briefcase on the way to the door. Glancing over at the patio as I head down the path, I see that my wife and her client are gone.

  Stu’s words sound like a broken record in my head.

  It stings like heartburn, but I’ve already admitted to myself that I want Paige back. I’m way past the petulant, fine-I-don’t-want-you-either phase now.

  I know why she called it quits, though. Stu is dead wrong about that at least.

  I made mistakes.

  And apparently they were unforgivable.

  Six years ago

  We step out into the sunshine and balmy air of the terrace at the back of Hammer’s house—which is actually
more like a mansion—well after the party’s started. Just about everyone from the firm is here, spread out in the vast backyard with its palm trees and lawns and gazebos and luxurious furniture, all centered around a large pool with a waterfall, looking like it was carved out of rock.

  No doubt the old bastard had an ulterior motive for throwing his sixtieth birthday bash at his own home. Look at all of this, he’s telling the low-level associates. Work hard, bring in revenue for my firm, and you could have this kind of wealth someday.

  Which is ninety-nine percent bullshit. None of them will reach this level of success, because none of them are Charlton Hammerness III.

  We find him over by the gigantic backyard kitchen, where a hired chef is manning the barbecue, hustling and ordering his assistant around among the smoke and sizzle of grilling meats. In the covered bar nearby, with its gleaming wood counter and occupied stools, a bartender is busy filling everyone’s requests.

  “Paige.” Hammer greets my wife with his arms out, a tumbler of liquor in one hand. “You look more stunning every time I see you.”

  As my boss grabs her bicep—left bare by her sleeveless red dress—and pulls her in to plant a kiss on her cheek, anger twists through me, clamping down on my chest. Goddamn. Get your fucking hands off my wife, old man.

  The flicker of a grimace on Paige’s face and the stiff awkwardness of the way she accepts his embrace don’t help.

  “Happy birthday, Charlton,” she says, obviously struggling to sound polite. “How are you?”

  “Great, great,” he gushes in that smarmy, I’m-talking-to-a-beautiful-woman tone I know so well, still gripping her arm. “You know me. I don’t slow down. Big win this past week.”

  Why is he still touching her? My lungs tighten as she throws an irritated glance my way, and I’m scrambling for a way to rescue her without pissing him off.

  Then Paige shifts back an inch, Hammer’s hands fall away, and the crisis is averted. Though my wife still looks like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

  “Yeah, congratulations,” she says. “You guys fought hard on that one.”