by Loren, Roni
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Copyright © 2018 by Roni Loren
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image © PeopleImages/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek at The One You Fight For
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To the Possum Posse, because writing would be a lonely job (even for this introvert) without great friends like you in my life.
chapter
ONE
There’s a reason why romantic movies only show the beginning of people’s love stories. That’s the exciting part: the thrill, the magic. There is something undeniably enticing about the ripe sense of possibility. What will their life become now that they’ve found each other?
Well, Rebecca Lindt could tell them. They had about a one-third chance of maintaining their happily-ever-after, a one-third chance of staying married but being miserable about it, and a one-third likelihood of ending up in front of someone like her, battling it out over who gets to keep the Le Creuset pot collection or the riding lawn mower, even though neither of them cooks or cuts their own grass.
Today’s battle of the exes was over a crotch-sniffing standard poodle that somehow had made it into the office and the divorce mediation session. The wife was claiming the dog was her Official Emotional Companion (the words always spoken with utter reverence and implied capitalization by her lawyer) and therefore had to remain with her. Rebecca’s client, Anthony, was vibrating with barely leashed anger as he tried to explain through clenched teeth to the mediator that his wife had always hated the dog and that the poodle should remain with him.
Prince Hairy, the fluffy beast in question, didn’t seem to care either way. He just wanted to hunt beneath the table and give a filthy how-do-you-do with a wet nose to the private parts of every person in the meeting. Rebecca sent up a silent thank-you that she was wearing a pantsuit, but that hadn’t stopped her from feeling slightly assaulted every time the dog moved her way.
A wet tongue licked her ankle, sending a shudder through her, and she gently shooed the dog away, trying to keep her expression unhorrified and professional. But Raul, the other attorney, lifted a knowing brow at her. She had no doubt he’d be telling her later that she owed the dog a drink for all the action.
“Prince Hairy has been with us since he was a puppy,” the wife said, her tone curt, as if she was biting the words in half. “I named him. I take him to the groomer. He’s home with me when you’re at work. My therapist says that he’s part of my recovery. He is my Official Emotional Companion.”
“Emotional companion,” Anthony sneered, his calm breaking. “Come on, Daphne. Your emotional companion was the goddamned contractor you screwed in my bed!”
“Mr. Ames,” the mediator said, a schoolteacher-style warning in her voice. “You both chose mediation to avoid court, but in order for that to work, I need you to keep the accusations—”
Anthony scoffed. “Accusations? They’re not accusations if they’re true.”
Rebecca placed a staying hand on Anthony’s arm, silencing him and sending her own warning message. I’ve got this. Calm down.
Anthony deflated beside her, and Rebecca took over. “I think what Mr. Ames is trying to say is that there is no paperwork designating Prince Hairy as an emotional companion. He may, perhaps, be a comfort to Mrs. Ames, but he is not an official therapy dog.” He was just Daphne’s best bargaining chip because Anthony was ridiculously in love with the canine menace. “Therefore, that should not factor into the decision of where Prince Hairy will live. The dog was adopted under Anthony’s name. He is the one to take him for walks and to vet visits. Since Mr. Ames plans to remain in the home, he’ll have adequate space for him.”
“What?” Daphne demanded, her words ripping through the veneer of her pretend calm. “Are you effing kidding me right now? You are not getting the house.”
Effing. Rebecca smirked. They’d all agreed to no foul language during mediation. Daphne was apparently willing to fudge on the rules like she’d fudged on her marriage vows.
The mediator gave a deep sigh, clearly questioning why she’d chosen such a career path in the first place. Fridays made one do that anyway, but this one was going for the gold medal of Fridayness. “Mrs. Ames, we all agreed to keep our voices at a normal level.”
But Daphne was having none of it. Her lips were puckered as if she’d sucked a lemon, and there was fire brewing in her blue eyes. A fuse ready to blow.
“I’m getting the house,” Anthony said simply.
Rebecca smiled inwardly. And three, two, one…
Daphne stood, her manicured hands pressed flat against the table and a dark lock of hair slipping out of her French knot. “You will not take my house from me, you worthless piece of shit. I just spent two years remodeling it.”
“And screwing the contractor.”
“Mr. and Mrs.—”
“It’s mine!” Her palm slapped the table, which earned a bark from Prince Hairy. “And I slept with Eric because you neglected me and were never home, and you…you…” Her gaze zeroed in on Anthony as she found her weapon. “You were bad in bed!”
Anthony bristled, but Rebecca gripped his arm tighter, praying he’d weather the low b
low. When well prepped, people could deal with a lot of insults in mediation or court, but she’d learned men had a figurative and literal soft spot when their manhood was called into question.
“Mrs. Ames,” the mediator admonished.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca said, her tone utterly calm, which would only make Daphne look more out of order. “Can we have a minute? I’d like a private word with my client, and I think everyone could use a break.”
The mediator’s shoulders sagged with resignation, and she adjusted her glasses. “Five-minute break. Everyone needs to come back ready to be civil, or we’re going to have to end the mediation and let this go to court.”
Daphne huffed, and Raul soothed her with gentle words as he offered her a bottle of sparkling water. She took a long sip, her gaze still shooting daggers at Anthony. Raul nodded at Rebecca. “We’re going to take a little walk and bring Prince Hairy out for a bathroom break. We’ll be back in five.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said, knowing that taking the dog with him was their version of posturing—acting like the dog was Daphne’s already—but Rebecca wasn’t worried. This was all going exactly as she’d planned.
Once the door to the conference room shut, Anthony turned to her, his perfectly styled brown hair a mess from him raking his fingers through it. “I’m not bad in bed. She’s lying.”
“Anthony.”
“Women always, you know, have a good time, and Daphne always, you know…” A hurt look filled his eyes as he let the sentence trail off.
A pang of sympathy went through Rebecca even though her patience for hand-holding was low on a good day and nearly nonexistent after a court battle this morning and mediation this afternoon. Anthony’s head was no doubt whirling. Was he bad in bed? Had his wife faked her enjoyment? Was that why she’d strayed?
Rebecca reached out and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Anthony, you know she’s just throwing out words to rile you up. I told you she’d say the ugliest things to get you off your game. This is a standard emasculation tactic.”
He blinked. “What?”
“The easiest way to knock a guy off his game is to insult his penis size or his ability in bed. Men seem to have some inborn need to defend against that type of insult.” In her head she called it the Dick Kick, but she couldn’t bring herself to say that to a client. “On the other side, men insult the woman by saying she’s frigid or ugly, getting fat or old. When cornered, people strike right at the clichéd insecurities. It’s completely unoriginal and the tactic of someone who knows she’s losing the fight. It means we’re winning.”
Anthony gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. “Winning? She’s going to get her therapist to label Prince a therapy dog. She has that guy wrapped around her finger because she’s paying way more than he’s worth. Watch. Then I’ll lose Prince, too.”
His voice caught and he glanced away, hiding the tears that jumped to his eyes at the thought of losing his dog.
Rebecca frowned. She’d never had a pet because her father had deemed them unsanitary and high maintenance, but she was regularly amazed at how people would throw away everything to keep a pet or some sentimental item. She always preferred to have the client who was less attached to those things. Sentimentality made people irrational. You can take the eighty-thousand-dollar car as long as I can keep my mother’s china.
She didn’t get it. But, of course, when the mother you worship leaves your family without warning when you’re in fourth grade to go start a new family, you learn not to get attached to much. Nothing was permanently yours.
But Anthony was her client, and he’d told her in no uncertain terms that the dog was the number one priority. He was paying Rebecca to get what he wanted, so she would accomplish that because she was good at her job and not there to judge whether a crotch-sniffer trumped a million-dollar home.
Rebecca patted his arm. “I promise. This is going exactly how we want it to. As long as they don’t have any curveballs we didn’t prepare for, what we discussed will work.”
He looked up. “Curveballs?”
“Yes, any treasured items you didn’t tell me about that could make you fold.” Rebecca glanced at the door, making sure they were still alone, and casually rose from her chair and leaned over the table to flip open Raul’s folder. She read the neat handwriting upside down. There was a jotted list of notes and talking points. She recognized and expected most of them. House. 401(k). Cars. Time-share. Antique furniture. Jewelry. All things she’d gone over with Anthony. But one buried near the bottom caught her eye.
She quickly flipped the folder closed and settled back into her seat. She pinned Anthony with a look. “Tell me about the record collection.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“They have it on their list to discuss.”
“They have what?” A bright flush of anger filled Anthony’s face. “Those are my goddamned records. I’ve been collecting them since I was fourteen.”
Uh-oh. “Have you added to the collection since you were married?”
“Yes, but—”
Great. “Is it worth a significant amount of money, or would it be hard to replace?”
His face paled. “I have original editions. Some signed. Some would be near impossible to replace. She can’t have it. That collection is… It’s my childhood.”
A sinking feeling settled in Rebecca’s stomach. “The dog or the records, Anthony? If you have to die on one hill, which one is it?”
“You want me to pick between my dog and a collection I’ve spent twenty years putting together? That’s impossible.”
“We could take this to court. You know we’ll have the upper hand.” She’d suggested this from the start. They’d both make more money if they went to court and showed fault. They had evidence. Daphne wouldn’t come across well. A big win would further Rebecca’s chances for making partner and would most likely get Anthony everything he wanted. Win-win.
Anthony shook his head and pressed his fingers to his brow. “I don’t think I can handle dragging this out. But my dog or my records?”
Rebecca shook her head, her tone no-nonsense. “I will work to get both, but if I have to cut one in order to get the other, I need to know which one to drop.”
But the door opened before he could answer, and everyone filed back in. Raul and Daphne looked smug as they walked the dog back into the office. Prince Hairy proceeded to duck beneath the table and plop down on Anthony’s feet.
Anthony gave Rebecca a forlorn look.
She lifted a brow, and he nodded.
The dog wins.
The mediator took her seat. “Okay, why don’t we start again now that everyone has cooled down.”
Rebecca folded her hands on the table and straightened her back. Poker time. “I’ve talked with my client, and I believe we have a workable compromise. Mr. Ames will give Mrs. Ames the dog, his old records, the Mercedes, and her antique doll collection in exchange for the house and the SUV.”
Anthony went tense in his chair, and Rebecca could feel the what-the-hell-are-you-doing vibe coming from him, but she didn’t look his way.
Daphne’s eyes went comically wide. “My doll collection? That’s mine anyway.”
“It was acquired during the marriage.” Rebecca kept her tone professionally bored.
“The doll collection is off the table,” Raul said smoothly.
Rebecca made a note on her legal pad. “Then the record collection is, too.”
“Fine.” Daphne nodded. “Take your crappy records.”
Raul frowned, his sentimental bargaining chip slipping out of reach.
Rebecca fought a smirk. One down. “Okay, Ms. Ames, so you get Prince Hairy and will be solely responsible for his care and vet bills. Mr. Ames will get the house and will buy you out of your half. Agreed?”
“No,” Daphne said, glancing at her lawyer with a do-something look. “I’m not leaving here without the house. I picked every paint color, every tile, chose every piece of f
urniture. It’s mine.”
“You could move in with your parents, Daph,” Anthony said casually, playing his part again. “Until you find another place.”
She blanched. “I’d rather kill myself than live with them. I’m not leaving my house.”
Anthony propped his chin on his fist as if settling in for a really good movie.
Rebecca tried not to grimace at Daphne’s comment. She’d never gotten used to how easily people tossed around those dramatic words. Threats of suicide and murder rolled off people’s tongues all the time, especially in divorce mediation. She knew it was just hyperbole, but in high school, two people had made those threats and then carried them through. No one had listened. They’d thought it was an exaggeration. She’d thought it was an exaggeration. They’d all been wrong. So very wrong.
Her stomach flipped over and she took a sip of water, trying to shake off the memories that were like the off-key elevator music of her life, never far in the background and always ready to turn up louder. She clenched her jaw, forcing her expression to remain neutral. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Ames,” the mediator said, “if we don’t resolve this here, it will have to go to court. Try to remember that compromise isn’t losing. Seeking things just for revenge feels satisfying in the short term but will drag this process out, cost you more money with your lawyers, and create more stress for you. You will be dealing with each other for a long time. If we can resolve this here, you can walk away and not have to see each other again.”
“Well, there’s a bonus,” Anthony muttered.
“I’m not afraid to go to court to get my house,” Daphne said, her tone frosty.
