The Prenup: a love story

by Lauren Layne

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

  C olin’s a perpetually early riser, but not, apparently, when he has a pasta dinner and a half bottle of wine at eleven the night before, because when I get back from my frantic flower mission, his bedroom door’s still closed, and the coffee’s not on.

  Breathing a sigh of relief that I have a moment to gather my thoughts, I set the flowers on the counter and put on a pot of coffee. At this point, anything I can do to endear him to me after a seriously awful gaffe seems like a good plan, and coffee is always a good start.

  It also gives me a chance to arrange the flowers. None of the local florists in the neighborhood were open this early, but Whole Foods was.

  Unfortunately, Whole Foods’ flower selection, while pretty and varied, had only modest-sized arrangements. After my blunder, the man deserves a bouquet the size of a small pony.

  I settled for buying lots of little arrangements—six, to be exact—and now I set about unwrapping them, snipping the rubber bands, and combining them into one giant mess of flowers.

  “Hmm,” I puzzle aloud, as I realize that I have no idea where Colin keeps his vases—or if he even owns any. And even if he does have a vase, I’m reasonably sure it won’t be one large enough to fit my self-assembled arrangement.

  I purse my lips and study my handiwork. My flower “bouquet” is a lot more akin to a bush. One that takes both my arms to pick up, and even then, I drop a handful of blooms on the way to Colin’s door.

  I hesitate briefly, realizing I forgot the coffee, but since the flowers are a two-armed affair, I’ll have to make two trips: one to deliver flowers and grovel, and a second to deliver coffee and grovel again.

  In true Charlotte fashion, I didn’t think my plan all the way through, because even though it takes me about five times of rattling the doorknob, and about twenty more dropped stems before I can get his bedroom door open, he’s apparently not a light sleeper and doesn’t budge from beneath the covers.

  Fantastic plan.

  Here I am, sneaking into a sleeping man’s bedroom with enough flowers to fill the back seat of an SUV, standing at the foot of his bed and … watching him sleep.

  I don’t mean to, I’m just trying to figure out my next move, but even as my brain races through what now options, I take in the fact that even at his most vulnerable, he’s still got that slightly haunted, closed-off vibe. There’s no softening of his brow while he sleeps, no slight smile indicating pleasant dreams.

  I clear my throat. No movement.

  “Colin,” I whisper. Nothing.

  I say his name louder, but he still doesn’t move, and the thorns from some pokey flower are making my situation kind of desperate.

  His bed frame doesn’t have a footboard, so I lift my knee to the foot of his bed and awkwardly manage to nudge his foot. “Colin!”

  That does the trick.

  He bolts upright, and … oopsie.

  The bed covers drop all the way to his waist. It stops short of telling me whether he sleeps naked, but he definitely sleeps shirtless, and, well, all I can think is, very, very nice, said in an Irish accent in my head.

  That first day in the bar before he’d told me he wanted a divorce, I’d guessed he had at least a six-pack, and I give myself a mental pat on the back for being proven right this morning. Colin’s chest is broad, sculpted, and covered in just the right amount of hair. And interestingly enough, I may have hated that beard back in the day, but the dark shadow on his jaw at the moment is extremely appealing, especially when paired with the mussed dark curls.

  “Charlotte, what the hell?”

  “What the hell am I doing in your bedroom, or what the hell is with the flowers?” I ask.

  He drags his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes slightly, then shakes his head and repeats. “What the hell?”

  “Okay, so that’s what the hell to both, then. Well, okay. I’m in your room to deliver the flowers. And I’m delivering flowers because I’m really, really sorry.”

  “For?”

  I take a deep breath. “Your parents. For their passing. And for not knowing and saying some really insensitive things about how you didn’t make time to visit them, and … oh God. It’s so awful, and I’m so sorry. Really sorry. And I want you to forgive me. You have to say that you do.”

  Colin doesn’t say he forgives me. He doesn’t say anything at all. He just sits there with the sheet pooled at his waist, his eyes still looking slightly fuzzy from sleep, his hair rumpled and adorable.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay, you forgive me?” I ask.

  “Okay, you can get out of my room now.”

  “Fair enough. I made coffee. I’ll go get it.” I heave the flowers upwards slightly, as I lose a couple of tulips to the floor. “Can I set these down first?”

  “Please don’t.”

  I pretend I don’t hear this, mainly because if I don’t put the flowers down soon, I may die of blood loss.

  Colin sleeps on the right side of the bed, so I scoot around to the left side and leaning over, I awkwardly deposit the flowers on the bed. They take up a lot of room, and he makes a grumbling noise.

  I make a quick sprint for the kitchen, hoping coffee will make up for the fact that he’ll probably have to wash his bedding to get rid of all the flower pollen and dirt that are now all over his bed.

  I’ll wash the sheets, I amend. Right after I cook him breakfast.

  I pour us each a cup of coffee, and when I go back into his bedroom, he hasn’t moved except to turn his head to stare at the flowers as though he doesn’t quite know what to make of them.

  “Coffee?” I ask rhetorically, going around to his side of the bed. I hand it to him, but he doesn’t reach out to take it, so I set it on the nightstand.

  Without warning, Colin reaches out and jerks the hem of my cami upwards.

  “What the—”

  “You’re bleeding,” he announces unceremoniously, as he looks at my exposed stomach.

  “Oh.” I glance down at the red scratches on the left side of my torso. “Yeah. Roses weren’t a great choice for my plan.”

  “So, you actually had a plan?” he asks.

  “As much as I ever do.”

  His lips twitch a little at that, and I suck in a breath as he sets his thumb near the largest of the cuts along one of my ribs. “The cuts look pretty shallow. Do they hurt?”

  “Paper cut pain,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee.

  His gaze flicks up. “So, the worst kind of pain on the planet?”

  I smile. “Pretty much.”

  He lets my shirt drop, though I notice it takes him just a second too long to remove the finger that had been resting against my stomach. I also notice that my body is throbbing in ways that have nothing to do with any cuts from the flowers.

  He reaches for his coffee mug, and I nudge his calf beneath the blankets, a silent command to scoot. I count it as a victory when he moves toward the center of the bed instead of ordering me out.

  “I really am sorry,” I say softly, meeting his eyes. “About your parents. Mine drive me crazy, but to lose them … especially to lose them both at once. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

  He looks down at his mug. “How’d you find out?”

  “Justin called this morning. Finally,” I mutter.

  Colin gives a grim smile. “Yeah. He’s been avoiding me too.”

  Sensing he doesn’t want to talk about his parents—and who could blame him—I shift topics. “So you haven’t talked to my brother? About the terms of the prenup?”

  “No, we talked,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “Right after I dug out the paperwork and saw what he’d done.”

  “I thought he was just being a dick, but he claims that his dumbass twenty-four-year-old self had good intentions.”

  “Oh yeah? I didn’t really give him much of a chance to explain himself through the cursing.”

  “At least one of us gave him a solid verbal reaming. I was too groggy to
do much but sputter at him, but I feel pretty good about the fact that I tattled on him to my dad last night, which means it’s only a matter of time until Mom finds out and calls Justin, and that conversation will be far more savage than any damage you or I can do.”

  Colin nods in agreement. “I’m not entirely sure I want to know, but what did he claim were his good intentions?”

  “Matchmaking.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Apparently, by forcing us to live under the same roof, we were meant to fall madly in love.”

  Colin grunts, which I’m learning is his default morning method of communication.

  “So naturally,” I continue airily, “I told Justin that we couldn’t be too mad at him for his plan, seeing as it’s worked marvelously, and you haven’t been able to keep your heart locked up, nor your hands off me.”

  I’m sort of hoping to get a rise out of him, but he’s either made of sterner stuff or is just really used to me, because he merely rolls his eyes and points to the flowers.

  “So, after you robbed a garden, what was your plan? Start a nursery? Build a greenhouse?”

  “Oh, that reminds me, where do you keep your vases?”

  “My what?”

  “You know. Flower vase. The bouquet won’t all fit in one, but I can break them up into smaller bouquets and fill lots of vases.”

  I don’t tell him that they actually started as smaller bouquets. Somehow, I doubt he’ll appreciate my panicked need to make an impact. Especially since said impact is starting to make his room smell decidedly feminine.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t have any vases.”

  I tsk. “How can you not have a single vase?”

  “Because until right now, I’ve never had a single flower in my home.”

  “Well, that’s just silly.”

  “Feel free to survey the heterosexual men in your acquaintance who live alone, and ask them how many of them have vases.”

  “I would, but that would take far too long,” I say with a sigh. “I fear my little black book filled with available men is close to bursting.”

  “Is it now?” he says, and I pause in the process of taking a sip of my coffee because there’s a slightly dangerous element in his tone, something almost … predatory.

  I meet his eyes, and for a single moment, they seem to darken before he looks away. What do you know? He does know how to smolder.

  “Out,” he orders, kicking slightly at my hip. “I need to get up.”

  I try and fail to rid my brain of dirty thoughts at the image his phrasing conjures.

  “Because I may need to know at some point,” I say, standing up by the side of the bed and gesturing over him with the mug. “Do you sleep half naked, or all the way naked?”

  He glowers up at me. “When would you ever need to know that?”

  “You know, in case the marriage fraud investigators come knocking. As your bedfellow, I would know.”

  “Bedfellow?” He points to the open door. “Out. Now. And close it behind you.”

  “Well, that answers that question,” I say with a pleasant smile. “You sleep all the way naked. You wouldn’t need me to close the door if you had boxers on under there.”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” I say. “There’s just one more thing …”

  I move quickly, not giving him any time to reject me as I set my coffee mug on the nightstand and, careful not to bump his coffee hand, I wrap my arms around his neck. He freezes, but I hold tight, forcing him into the hug.

  “I really am sorry,” I whisper softly, near his ear. “I’m sorry you lost your parents. And I’m sorry I was insensitive about it.”

  I mean it to be a quick hug, assuming he won’t be tolerant of anything longer than that, but just as I intend to pull back, Colin’s free hand comes up, his palm resting against the back of my head.

  “Thanks,” he mutters gruffly.

  For a moment, neither of us moves, and I’m suddenly all too aware of the fact that I’m leaning over him, the low-cut neckline of my tank leaving the tops of my boobs pressed against his chest, which is very bare and very warm.

  His head moves ever so slightly toward me, his cheek pressing against mine. The scratch of it against my skin makes me tingle as I wonder what that slight rasp would feel like on other parts of my skin, wondering what he’d do if I pulled back just enough to press my lips to his, to challenge his insistence that there are no sparks between us.

  I don’t get the chance to find out, because I kid you not, in the sort of crappy timing that you think only happens in movies … the doorbell rings.

  Literally. The freaking doorbell. Rings.

  I jump in surprise, straightening as he pulls away from me. We stare at each other in a moment of surprise, both at what just happened, as well as the fact that someone’s at the front door at seven on a Saturday morning.

  “Groceries?” I ask, since he gets all of the groceries delivered.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing scheduled.”

  The doorbell rings again, and I spring into action, exiting his bedroom and pulling the door shut behind me—partially because he asked, and partially because I need a minute. I stay still just for a moment, eyes closed, ordering my heart to stop pounding.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “God, okay, coming,” I mutter, half jogging to the front door.

  I open it to see a woman I don’t recognize, and though I try really hard not to make snap judgments about people I haven’t met, who I haven’t even spoken with, I’m just going to come right out and paint a mental picture for you …

  She’s got a mean face. Pretty. Definitely pretty, in a patrician, no-carbs kind of way. Her hair is long, thick and very, very red, her eyes bright blue. Great mouth. Very Angelina Jolie. All good features, in theory, except the pretty blue eyes are cold, the full mouth a little hard, the perfectly shaped nose turned up, not due to genetics, but because she’s actually looking down her nose at me. She’s also tall. Did I mention tall?

  “Hi,” I say, smiling, because she may be mean, but I am not. “Can I help you?”

  She looks irritated by the question. “I’m here to see Colin.”

  Colin, first name. Not Mr. Walsh. A social call, then. Interesting.

  “He’ll be right out. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”

  My use of we is a polite but pointed opportunity for her to explain who she is and what she’s doing here, but she doesn’t take the bait.

  I try again, extending my hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlotte. Colin’s wife.”

  It’s the first time I’ve used that phrase, and I’m not at all sure how I feel about the fact that it doesn’t feel nearly as strange as it should to be saying it aloud.

  But I don’t have time to dwell on it.

  If the woman’s face is mean, her smile has a downright malicious note to it. Slowly, she reaches out to shake my hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m Rebecca. Colin’s fiancée.”

  CHAPTER 17

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5

  “ Charlotte. Charlotte, damn it. Open the door.”

  I don’t move from where I sit cross-legged on my bed. Colin rattles the doorknob, but I’ve locked it.

  I hear him sigh. “I’d like to speak with you about this.”

  I scowl at the closed door. Oh, you’d like to speak with me about this, would you? You’d like to speak with me about the fact that it’s been nearly a month since you’ve told me you wanted a divorce, and not once have you bothered to mention the very pressing reason why.

  “Charlotte. Please.”

  I tilt my head a little at that, both at the unexpected use of please when he usually just barks orders, as well as the faint note of desperation in the way he says it.

  The moment doesn’t last long. He rattles the doorknob again. “You’re acting like a child,” he snaps, the quiet, desperate note of his voice replaced with irritation in its purest form.

  Strangely though,
it’s this irritated Colin that has me climbing off the bed and crossing to the door to unlock it. He’s quite right, sitting in a locked room is a bit immature, and I refuse to participate in any activity that would allow him to transfer blame for this situation onto me.

  He’s in the wrong, 100 percent, and I want to make sure he knows it.

  The moment I open the door and see his face, I realize he does know it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he looks miserable, but he’s definitely not a happy camper. He’s pulled on his robe, a heavy, dark blue thing that he wears whenever I’m around in the early mornings or late nights, as though to protect his virtue.

  And now I understand why. Probably for Rebecca’s sake.

  Speaking of her …

  I glance down the hallway. “Is she still here?” I keep my voice low.

  “In the kitchen,” he answers curtly, his voice equally low. “May I come in?”

  The fact that he doesn’t just push his way past me the way he usually does when he wants something confirms my suspicion that he knows exactly how badly he’s messed up.

  I step aside so he can enter, surprised at first when he shuts the bedroom door, until I realize he’s probably just trying to keep his two women separate.

  Two women. I’m trying very hard not to think of him as a pig, and failing.

  “So, a fiancée and a wife,” I say casually. “Tricky, tricky. No wonder you’re in such a bad mood all the time.”

  He meets my gaze. “I was going to tell you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I say, letting my voice take on a breezy tone. “You were probably just struggling to find the time and opportunity, right? It must have been difficult, what with us living across the hall from each other.”

  He closes his eyes.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I say, holding up my hands. “You talk. I eagerly await all the excellent reasons why you couldn’t have bothered to mention that you were engaged to another woman.”

  He opens his eyes again, and they seem more silver than blue in this light, and I wonder if that’s what happens to them when he feels guilty.

  “I don’t have one.” His voice is quiet.

  “Don’t have what?’