The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

  It’s a bit much to explain to a friend I’ve barely seen in ten years.

  “I’m so glad,” she says, sounding genuinely excited. “I don’t know Colin all that well, but he knows one of Camden’s coworkers, so we’ve ended up at some of the same holiday parties. He’s so … hot.”

  I let out a nervous laugh, knowing she means it as a compliment, but since I’m new to this wife thing, I’m not entirely sure how to act. Smug? Possessive? Proud? Humble?

  Why yes, I did bag the hottest Irish import since Guinness made it to the States!

  I decide to infuse a bit of honesty into the situation as much as I can, without putting Meghan in a weird place on the very off-chance she were to get interviewed by Immigration Services about the nature of our marriage.

  “He is hot,” I say. “He’s also impossible to read.”

  “Well, yeah,” she says, unsurprised. “He’s a man.”

  “No, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill, closed-off alpha stuff. I mean he’s like a whole other level of unreadable,” I insist. “I have no idea what he’s thinking, and the only time I get a glimpse of what might be going through his head when he looks at me, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about how much he dislikes me.”

  “Could be,” Meghan surprises me by saying. “But I guarantee there’s at least one other thing he’s thinking about when he looks at you.”

  “What’s that?” I ask warily.

  She leans forward and gives me a grin I recognize well from our teenage years. “Sex, darling. Obviously.”

  She looks so tipsily scandalized by her own assessment that I don’t have the heart to tell her that’s so not a factor in Colin’s case.

  CHAPTER 7

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 21

  The next morning starts with a crisis and a decision: coffee or pills?

  My nose makes the decision for me. I wouldn’t say no to an Excedrin, but I’m also painfully—pun intended—aware that my trusty bottle of headache fighter is currently a six-hour flight away in my San Francisco medicine cabinet.

  I could go snooping around Colin’s stuff looking for pills, but in my current state, I’m not equipped to deal with him hounding me. Not to mention, I’m not entirely sure the man even owns painkillers. He doesn’t strike me as the type to make bad decisions.

  Well, other than marrying me, of course.

  I roll out of bed, pausing for a second when I stand to make sure the world doesn’t spin. It’s a hangover all right, but not the worst I’ve ever had.

  I open the bedroom door, turn left as I’m used to doing at my bedroom at home, and stop just in time to not collide with the wall. I pivot and shuffle toward the smell of coffee and the sound of kitchen noises.

  Colin is standing at the kitchen stove dressed in slacks and an undershirt, his hair still damp from a shower. He does a double take when he sees me.

  “What are you wearing?” His accent is thicker than usual when he says it, lilting and a little bit husky.

  Since answering stupid questions is a no-go before coffee, I ignore him, instead opening and closing cupboards until I find the mugs. I feel a little pang of homesickness when I see they’re all matching black, and a far cry from my Kate Spade mugs with the bright polka dots, but as long as it can act as a vessel for caffeine, all is forgiven.

  I pull the heavy metal carafe off the fancy coffee maker, grateful for its heft because it means Colin’s made a very big pot.

  “What are you wearing?” he asks again, and because I’ve taken the first sip of sweet, sweet salvation, I humor him.

  “Pajamas.”

  “Where’s your robe?”

  “Well, Grandpa. I live alone, so I don’t need a robe.”

  “Well, you don’t live alone anymore, so yes, you do need a robe.”

  I look down at my pajamas, trying to figure out what’s got him acting all constipated. I tend to sleep hot, so even in winter, my pajamas consist of shorts and a tank top. The tank top is low-cut, but my boobs aren’t spilling out, and the shorts, while short, aren’t showing pubes, so why he’s all aflutter is beyond me.

  “Quick refresher from yesterday. I’m your roommate, not a guest. You don’t get to tell me what to wear,” I mutter, going around to the barstool and settling.

  He shakes his head and turns back to the stove. He holds up a metal bowl. “I was about to scramble some eggs. Want me to make any for you?”

  My stomach rolls and I can’t stifle the groan.

  He smirks over his shoulder. “Late night?”

  I press my fingers to the center of my forehead where the headache seems to be focused. “I caught up with Meghan and somehow forgot about the fact that I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

  “Meghan … short? Pink hair?”

  I smile even through my pain. “Still short. Hasn’t had pink hair since we were seventeen and she was going through her rebellious stage.”

  As opposed to my own rebellious stage, which hadn’t come until a couple of years after that. A rebellious stage that got me into the mess I’m in currently. Well, not the hangover mess. That was one too many glasses of a nice Spanish Tempranillo that followed the cocktails and Champagne. And needless to say, we had not consumed nearly enough tapas to absorb the wine.

  I glance at Colin’s broad back, noting the slight flex of muscles as he moves around the kitchen.

  “You already went to the gym?” I ask. “I thought you were going to show me where it was.”

  “It’s six forty-five.”

  “You say that like I slept until noon,” I say.

  “I like to be at the office no later than seven thirty.”

  I roll my eyes. “What a thrilling life you live.”

  He shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Don’t act like you’re in any shape to go to the gym. How’s the headache?”

  I wince. “Touché.”

  I devote myself to my coffee and am a little surprised when he sets a plate of steaming scrambled eggs in front of me.

  “What is this?”

  “Breakfast,” he says unceremoniously, sitting on a barstool, though he keeps a seat between us.

  “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Maybe you should. Especially if you’re in the habit of late nights.”

  “I’m not, actually,” I admit, staring at the eggs and trying to figure out if they sound like just the thing to help my headache or if they’ll merely tip the scales toward queasy.

  “Not in the habit of drinking?” he asks.

  “Not like I did last night,” I say, picking up the fork and gingerly taking a bite. “Not when I have to work the next day.”

  The eggs are pretty good, and my next bite is more enthusiastic.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I note that Colin eats methodically. Not inhaling his food, but not savoring it either. He’s got a pile of something green on his plate—spinach, maybe, and I’m grateful he spared me that, since I’m new to this breakfast thing. Vegetables are pushing my luck. Normally, I’m more of a coffee kind of gal, and occasionally, a raspberry smoothie that Kurt brings me when he tells me I’m acting hangry.

  The exception is Sunday brunch, but brunch isn’t breakfast. There is no spinach at brunch, not the way I do it. It’s all about mimosas and French toast piled high with whipped cream.

  “Do you like brunch?” I ask Colin.

  “What?” He doesn’t look at me.

  “Brunch. You know, a boozy weekend breakfast? Where you eat just a little too much, preferably something with Hollandaise or syrup, and want to take a nap after?”

  He wipes his mouth and takes the plate to the sink, rinsing it and putting it in the dishwasher using the same robotic efficiency with which he eats.

  “Are you done?” he asks.

  I look pointedly down at my plate, which is almost entirely full since I’ve taken all of two bites.

  “Right. Well, put it in the dishwasher when you’re done.”

  I give him a mocking salute as he pours himself anothe
r cup of coffee and heads back toward the bedroom.

  “So that’s a no on liking brunch then?” I call after him, mostly to be annoying.

  Colin doesn’t reply, and I don’t expect him to.

  I sigh. One morning down. Only about ninety more to go.

  Kill me.

  CHAPTER 8

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 28

  “Honey, your hair. Do they not have hairdressers in New York?”

  “Hey! I’m not going to do Skype calls anymore if you’re going to criticize my appearance.”

  Kurt blows me a kiss through his on-screen camera. “I missed your face.”

  “I missed yours too.”

  And it’s true. I have missed him. But … this whole working remotely thing has been more successful than I expected. Granted, it’s only been a week, but I’ve been a little surprised to realize how much more I get done when I don’t feel obligated to sit in on every possible meeting. Not to mention, the three-hour time difference means that I feel like I get a jump-start on every day.

  I make a mental note to use that three-hour advantage to make a hair appointment. I left San Francisco in such a hurry that I missed my standing appointment to keep my mushroom brown roots from showing, and the grow out’s not pretty. But neither is the process of finding a new stylist who knows his or her way around light blond hair, so I’ve been putting it off.

  The way Kurt’s eyes keep widening in horror tells me I’ve put it off too long.

  “Seriously, I’m going to go put on a hat if you keep doing that.”

  “Oh, God, no. That’s worse. Hats and your face shape are no good.”

  “Remind me again why we’re doing this?”

  He smiles. “Because you love me. And I love you. Speaking of lovvvvvve, how’s the hubby?”

  I slouch down at Colin’s kitchen table, which I’ve taken over as my makeshift office until I can get around to renting proper office space, and tell him the same thing I told Meghan. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  Kurt shakes his head. “Nonsense. Everyone loves you. You’ve got that joie de vivre that men find positively irresistible and women want for themselves.”

  “Yeah, well, Colin doesn’t seem to appreciate my joy for life. I think he thinks I’m annoying.”

  “Are you?”

  I purse my lips. “I may find it a little intriguing to push his buttons. But in my defense, he has a lot of them. The guy’s so tightly wound.”

  Kurt fans himself. “Oh, God. My Kryptonite. The first night I stayed over at Lewis’s house, I put my fork in the dishwasher tine-side down, and I thought he was going to lose it. It was some of the best sex we’ve ever had.”

  “Yeah, well. Colin and I are most definitely not having sex.”

  “You’re married!”

  “Not really. I barely know the guy.”

  “So? Get to know him.”

  “I’ve been trying,” I say, fiddling with my necklace. “Not because I want to sleep with him, but because I don’t see any reason why the next three months have to be completely unbearable. But he seems perfectly content to just pretend I don’t exist, even when we share the same fridge, breathe the same air …”

  “You could seduce him,” Kurt says, as though I haven’t spoken.

  “Okay, one-track mind. You’re not listening. I’m not interested in him like that. He’s grumpy, structured, and he lives on the other side of the country. I just don’t see why we can’t be friends.”

  Kurt shakes his head indulgently. “You never could stand it when people don’t like you.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he like me?” I demand, sitting up straight. “I’m easy to like. I get along with everyone.”

  “Mmmm. And how are your parents?”

  I lift a warning finger. “Off-limits, and you know it.”

  “So you haven’t seen them yet.”

  “No,” I grumble, trying to dodge the pervasive stab of guilt and failing.

  “Do they know you’re living in the same city as them these days?”

  “I’m working up to it. You don’t know them, Kurt. They’re not regular parents. They’re not even regular people.”

  “Okay, fine. One battle at a time. We’ll start with your spouse. How have you tried to win him over?”

  “I made him coffee this morning. He didn’t even say thank you.”

  “Who usually makes coffee?”

  “Him.”

  “Do you say thank you?”

  I open my mouth then shut it. “Fair point. Okay, so what do I do?”

  “Remind me of your ideal endgame?”

  “My not dying over the course of the next three months?”

  He rolls his finger. “Non-hyperbolic version.”

  I sigh. “I’d settle for not feeling so inferior whenever he’s around. I can deal with the fact that we’re not going to be BFFs, but it’s been a long time since someone’s made me feel so … inadequate.”

  “Have you asked him what he thinks of you?”

  “Um, no. How exactly does one have that conversation?”

  Kurt places his hand over his chest. “Okay, pretend I’m you …”

  Kurt flutters his eyelashes and twirls an imaginary lock of hair. “Hi, Colin? I know my hair looks kind of skanky right now, but that aside, I’m just wondering why you think I’m scum?”

  Kurt shifts positions slightly to the other side of his chair then scowls before speaking in a low, lilting voice. “I don’t disdain ye, lass. I’m just a wee bit shy is all.”

  “That is the worst Irish accent I’ve ever heard.”

  “But he does have an Irish accent, right?”

  “Yeah. But—”

  I break off when I hear the front door open.

  “Gotta run,” I tell Kurt.

  I slam my laptop shut before my friend can say goodbye, not wanting Colin to know we were talking about him and his sexy accent.

  Did I say sexy?

  Yes. Yes, I did. Because even though his accent’s not quite as thick as it was ten years ago, there’s still something distinctly hot about a man with an accent, especially when he looks like this one.

  He’s wearing a blue shirt today with his standard dark gray suit, and it brings out the bright blue of his eyes even more than usual. Blue eyes that blink once too fast when he sees me, as though he’s still not used to seeing me in his home.

  Colin gives a quick incline of his chin, his version of a greeting, as he closes the front door.

  We’ve been at this for a week, so I know what happens next. He puts his briefcase in the hall closet, goes to the kitchen for a glass of water and sometimes an apple, and then retreats to the bedroom. Sometimes he stays in there most of the night, except to eat, reading or watching TV. Some nights he’ll head back out, to do I don’t even know what with his evenings.

  He’s never outright rude. He’s considerate of noise. Cleans up after himself—and me, if I do something crazy like leave a baguette out on the counter. He speaks to me if I ask him something. He continues to put eggs in front of me every morning if I’m up at the same time as him. But like I told Kurt, I can’t shake the sense that he doesn’t like me. Or at the very least, wishes I wasn’t here.

  Which I can understand. I don’t particularly want to be here either. I still have pretty regular fantasies about strangling my brother for getting us into this mess, especially since Justin’s been continuing to ghost me. I can’t even blame him. My brother’s an exceptionally intelligent man. Avoiding the sister whose prenup you manipulated is a very smart strategy for preserving personal safety.

  Still, Justin did get me into this mess. He got both of us into this mess, and we’re stuck with it. And simply wishing the situation away isn’t going to work. Something’s got to give, and I guess it has to be me.

  “Hey, do you want a drink?” I blurt out, as he opens the coat closet to set his bag inside.

  Colin slowly straightens and gives me an unreadable look. “What?”

  “A d
rink,” I repeat patiently. “Alcohol optional. Consumed while in my company. That part is not optional.”

  “A drink here?”

  I shrug. “Why not? You’ve got that fancy bar cart with all the fixings. And I make a really good martini.”

  “Vodka or gin?”

  “Either. Both. Bond drank vodka.”

  “Churchill drank gin.”

  “Bond was hotter,” I counter.

  Colin’s hands slip under his open suit jacket, finding his hips as he studies me. “You’re a 007 fan.”

  “I’m a Daniel Craig fan. And Pierce Brosnan. And Connery. Okay, yes, fine. I’m a 007 fan.”

  He nods. “All right then. Ever had a Vesper?”

  I shake my head. “It sounds vaguely familiar though.”

  “It’s vodka and gin. Plus, Bond drank one in Casino Royale.”

  “Ah ha! So you’re a Bond fan too. What do you know, we do have something in common!”

  He doesn’t smile, but his gaze seems slightly friendlier than usual.

  “All right,” he says finally. “Let me make one quick phone call, and then I’ll make us one.”

  I wait until he’s out of sight, listening for the click of his bedroom door before I hop out of my chair and do a victory dance. What it lacks in coordination, it makes up for in enthusiasm.

  I’ve just figured out what my project will be while my real life in San Francisco is on hiatus: I will figure out what makes this guy tick, and I will make him like me.

  Kurt wasn’t entirely wrong about me. I do like people to like me. They don’t have to love me. Just … adore me, a little bit. Not because I’m vain, but, well …

  I suspect it probably has something to do with the deep-seated guilt of just how awful I was in my early twenties. Self-centered, reckless, and a little ungrateful.

  I’ve been making up for it ever since.

  I have no idea how long Colin’s phone call will take, and quite honestly, I don’t really need him to make the cocktails. I love to entertain, and added at-home bartending to my cocktail party and dinner party skills a long time ago. And though this particular cocktail is new to me, it’s nothing a little Google can’t help with.