War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

  Besides, as far as I’m concerned, men are all the same and if one of them wants my heart, he’s going to have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.

  Love is for the birds.

  Love Aldridge is for herself.

  Chapter Two

  Jude

  My new place reeks of expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and old leather—not that I’m complaining. It’s a far cry from the stale pizza-scented two bedroom I’ve been sharing with my sister and nieces in Brooklyn for the past year. Besides, I’ve lived in worse places: sweaty Army barracks, tents in Iraq, beer-stained sofas in friends’ living rooms.

  Sliding my barely-broken in Gucci loafers off, I head to the stainless-steel double-wide fridge and grab a bottle of beer from the middle shelf. There must be twenty different varieties here—most of which I’ve never heard of. I reach for an Arrogant Bastard, slam the door shut, and twist off the cap.

  Standing in the middle of a kitchen bigger than my entire place back in Brooklyn, I drag my palm along the shiny smooth marble counter. Everything’s so clean. So untouched. White and marble and wood, chandeliers that look like they belong at the MoMA. Every square inch of this place is doused in upgrades fit for a sheikh, and while this is only my third day here, I still can’t help but gawk a little every time I walk through the door.

  Earlier today, I’d done a bit of exploring … mostly drawers and nightstands … only to find condoms strategically shoved in every corner of this place. I couldn’t help but remember that rich bastard’s words to me as I left his office that day: “You’ve got my full permission to drive it like you stole it.”

  It meaning … his ex-wife.

  But he isn’t paying me to judge him, is he?

  I take a swig of beer and another good, hard look around.

  I’ve been in places like this plenty of times before, but I was always in a plumber’s uniform and I was never there more than a few hours before heading to the next call out.

  Making my way to the living room, I stand before a floor-to-ceiling window with an unobstructed view of Central Park.

  People pay millions of dollars to live like this and now some rich asshole is paying me a million dollars to pretend to live like this for reasons I still don’t quite understand. He said he couldn’t tell me why for “liability purposes”—his and mine. Maybe that should’ve been a red flag, and to a guy in different circumstances, that would’ve been all the reason he needed to walk out of Hunter LeGrand’s office right then and there, but as the old adage goes … he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse—literally—because between the lines of that offer was a threat.

  Taking a seat in a buttery chair the color of top shelf cognac, I bring the beer bottle to my lips as I take in the view of the city at night. It’s a different experience from this side of the bridge, almost like seeing it for the first time.

  There are going to be a lot of firsts for me these next few months. First time living like a true Upper Eastsider. First time wearing nothing but designer labels. First time pretending to prefer Chopin and Bach over Bon Iver and Iron and Wine. First time dedicating my entire existence to ensuring some divorcee socialite falls madly, deeply in love with me and then breaking her heart the second the ink is dry on the marriage certificate.

  Every time I think about what I’m doing, I hate myself a little bit more than the time before, but if I’m going to do this, I can’t think that way. I have to harden my heart, ignore that voice in my head that tells me how fucked up this whole thing is, and keep pushing forward.

  Last month, Hunter had given me a small binder full of notes on his ex-wife. Hobbies. Interests. Favorite shops and restaurants. Most-loved travel destinations. Favorite books and movies and wines. Anything I could possibly want to know about her was in there and I was told to study those pages, to know them frontward and backward, to memorize every little thing about Love so that I could morph myself into the kind of man she’d fall irrevocably in love with.

  Meeting her tonight for the first time was surreal.

  She wasn’t at all what I expected, at least not based on the things Hunter had told me. He said Love was materialistic, money-hungry, and stone cold. He said I wouldn’t like her at first, that I’d be put off the instant our eyes met. Hunter also described her as spoiled, entitled, and selfish.

  But she was wearing faded Levis, throwing money into a fountain just ‘cause, and she actually introduced herself and welcomed me to the building.

  The only thing that seems to match up so far is the fact that she’s a complete knockout even though the photos Hunter gave me hardly do her justice. In person, Love’s got this understated elegance about her, from her soft blonde hair to her hooded hazel eyes, to her pointed nose and high cheekbones. She could be a princess or the girl next door and it would suit her all the same.

  And that runner’s body… God, I could eat my fist just thinking about it right now. Consummating this relationship will be a piece of fucking cake.

  Leaning against the back of my chair, I cross my legs wide and finish my beer, accepting myself for the self-serving piece of shit that I’ve become, and when I’m done, I force myself to call it a night.

  The sooner I go to bed, the sooner I can wake up and get this shit show started.

  Chapter Three

  Love

  “This reminds me of our WVU days,” Tierney says as she takes a seat on my bed and scans my new bedroom. “Just hanging out, doing girl stuff.”

  My best friend smirks, reaching for the newest edition of Elle on my nightstand and aimlessly paging through it.

  “Yeah, it does.” Seated in a gray velvet chair by the window, I drag my legs in and wrap my arms around them. Tierney sitting on my bed reading one of my magazines does feel like a college flashback, but only until her phone rings and I’m reminded that we’re both pushing thirty, she’s running her own company while expecting her first baby with her new husband, and we’re up to our eyeballs in the “real world.”

  “I miss those days,” she says with a soft sigh. “Life was so damn easy then, wasn’t it? I mean, we just woke up, literally rolled out of bed, and did our thing. Biggest concern was where we were going to grab drinks that night.”

  I miss those days too.

  I miss the days when Hunter was nothing but a broke college kid, like myself. I miss the days when he never left my side, when he looked at me with this stupid, goofy grin on his face without even realizing it half the time and my body would fire on all cylinders every time he walked in the room. I miss the five-dollar carnation bouquets and the frozen pizza candlelight dinners. The aimless drives and the dollar-theater movie matinees on free popcorn days.

  But money ruins things.

  And in the end, it ruined us.

  We weren’t married but a year when Hunter pitched some cyber security software he’d been coding to some big corporation in Silicon Valley. It was a stretch—him landing a deal on a type of product no one had ever so much as attempted before—but he had my support and nothing to lose, so he went for it.

  The day they called with an offer is a day I couldn’t forget if I tried. And believe me—I’ve tried. Many times. It’s the day that changed the entire trajectory of our marriage. It’s the day the universe took that sweet, beautiful, perfect little thing that we had, doused it in gasoline, and struck an entire book of matches.

  I watched us go up in flames, only it wasn’t a quick process.

  It was a slow burn that played out through harsh words, hurt feelings, through tears and sleepless nights.

  Through a text message that was never intended for me …

  To go from having nothing but the clothes on your back, your young wife, and a shoebox campus town apartment in Morgantown, West Virginia to having tens of millions of dollars dumped in your lap overnight was something Hunter couldn’t handle, only neither of us would know it until it was too late.

  By the end of that first week, he’d signed a lease on an apartment in some trendy Ma
nhattan neighborhood, sold my vintage Subaru and his used Honda, and rented a moving van—all of this without so much as consulting me.

  By the end of the first year, he’d invested in half a dozen startups, the majority of which were profitable and one of which he ended up buying outright: a little company called Blue Stream Records.

  And as if we weren’t already set for life, the universe decided to make it rain once again a couple of years after Hunter signed a handful of major artists and developed a state-of-the-art streaming service which grew by thousands of users every time we blinked.

  The money poured in.

  We couldn’t stop it.

  It was a blessing and then a curse, and it was fun until it wasn’t.

  “I’m richer than God, Love,” Hunter said to me once with a wild look in his dark eyes. And it was always like that. He was the rich one. I was just the wife. He was the one with the money and the connections and the overnight notoriety. I was just the girl on his arm who’d loved him before he was anyone special because he was always special to me.

  Hunter’s business endeavors took us from obscurity to red carpets, from Gap to Givenchy, from a studio apartment to a penthouse.

  I’ll never forget coming home from a run one day to someone in my closet, tossing out my entire wardrobe and replacing it with designer pieces she was pulling out of the department store bags that littered the floor.

  Hunter had hired her to give me a new look—one that was more appropriate for our new lifestyle. At the time, I thought it was a sweet gesture. It was early in our Manhattan tenure and I thought he was spoiling me, treating me to all the nice things he could never afford before, as a way to celebrate our big move. But now I know it was only a control thing for him.

  His insecurities and his bloated ego needed an eleven in a world where everyone in his world were content to have tens.

  First it was the wardrobe. Then it was the hair and makeup. The driver. The regular manicures and diamond facials. Then it was the jewelry, the galas, the couture.

  But I never wanted any of it.

  I only wanted Hunter—the Hunter that I first fell in love with.

  We had nothing when we tied the knot, which meant we had no reason to sign a pre-nup, which meant I was entitled to half his earnings as well as alimony.

  I didn’t want all of that money, but my attorney pushed for it, telling me how much I deserved it for putting up with Hunter all those years, and then he reminded me that I could always give it away.

  I found my vindication there, in that suggestion.

  That money might have ruined Hunter and obliterated our marriage, but I could still do some good with it.

  In the end, despite Hunter retaining one of the best divorce lawyers in the city, I managed to snag a generous lump sum, a handful of assets, and a monthly alimony payment that added up to a whopping eight figures a year.

  The only way my ex would ever have to stop paying me alimony is if he goes bankrupt or if I remarry—and it’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens again.

  “Let’s go grab a coffee or something,” Tierney says, folding the magazine and tossing it aside. “It’s either that or I take a nap right here on your brand-new bed.”

  Smiling, she extends her arms, fingers wiggling with impatience.

  Getting up from my chair, I make my way across the room, taking her hands and helping her roll off my bed.

  “Need help putting your shoes on too?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” She winks, and I follow her down the hall toward the little foyer of my apartment. It pales in comparison to the one I had before in the penthouse with Hunter, but I’m perfectly fine with that. In fact, I love that it’s cozier. I love how it’s comfortable and updated without being pretentious and over the top. The complete opposite of the one I had before. A dainty, flush mount chandelier hangs above us, and I step into my ballet flats while Tierney stuffs her swollen feet into a pair of red-bottomed heels.

  I don’t tell her she’s crazy—she might bite my head off like she did when I asked her if it was okay for her to drink coffee while pregnant. It was an honest question, but she referred me to Google and then gave me her obstetrician’s phone number in case I wanted to confirm with her myself.

  Screw it.

  “We’re walking,” I remind her. I gave up the driving service when I moved here. Everything I need is within walking distance, and if I want to shed that old LeGrand skin, that means parting ways with unnecessary luxuries like chauffeurs and imported SUVs. “I can loan you a pair of sneakers if you want?”

  Tierney looks at me like I’m insane for so much as suggesting that she’s incapable of waddling to the corner in five-inch stilettos whilst seven months pregnant, and then she reaches for the door knob.

  Following her to the hall, I pull the door closed and lock up, only when I turn to leave, I see the door across the hall swinging open. A moment later, out steps a shirtless Jude dressed for a summer run in the park—at least I presume. Navy athletic shorts rest low in his angled hips, the inverted muscles of his lower abdomen pointing down before disappearing beneath his waistband. When he rests a hand on his hip, I catch a glimpse of the bulging veins in his arm … my mind immediately going somewhere else completely.

  Our eyes catch and my heart stutters without permission.

  Redirecting my thoughts is the easy part. Keeping my body from reacting to a sight like this is the part that’ll give me a run for my money.

  “Oh. My,” Tierney says in a deep Joan Crawford-esque manner, lifting her palm to her chest as she drinks him in. Subtle is a language she’s never been able to master.

  I mouth the word “sorry” to my neighbor and link my arm into hers in an attempt to drag her away.

  “Excuse me,” she says to Jude as she jerks her arm from my grasp. “You two are neighbors?”

  He looks at me then to her before his full lips pull into a smirk. He’s amused.

  “We are,” he says.

  “Have you met yet?” she asks, her finger pointed as it moves between the two of us.

  “We have,” he says. “Last night.”

  Turning to me, Tierney’s liquid blue eyes widen and she fights a smile. I’m sure the second we’re out of here, she’s going to go off on me for not mentioning him, but there’s nothing to mention.

  I have a hot neighbor. So what?

  “You know she’s single, right?” Tierney says.

  “Oh, my god.” I turn away for a second. “Tierney. Stop.” Glancing back, I say to Jude, “I’m so sorry. She’s pregnant and crazy hormonal and she has no filter.”

  “Are you trying to imply in front of this ridiculously beautiful specimen of a man that I’m a hot mess?” Tierney asks, one auburn eyebrow perched.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Jude says, pulling his phone and earbuds from his shorts pockets. He speaks to her but looks to me. He’s still a stranger, but there’s something going on behind those olive-green eyes of his that seem to intensify the longer he stares at me. “Love, see you around.”

  Turning away, Jude heads toward the elevator, but I stay back. It’d be awkward if we all piled in now.

  “I can’t believe you said that,” I say once he’s gone, lightly punching her arm before clapping my hand over my mouth. “What are we? Fifteen?”

  Tierney laughs. “Lighten up. Your neighbor is hot as hell and you’re single as hell. I was just putting that energy out there. If it’s meant to be, something will come of it.”

  “I don’t want anything to come of anything,” I remind her. I’ve told her this a hundred times this year alone. I don’t want to date. I’m focusing on myself for a while and then I’ll see what happens. “What if he asks me out now?”

  Not that I think he would …

  And for all I know, he’s got a wife or fiancée or girlfriend or something.

  But still—if he did ask me out and I said no, it’s going to make bumping into him around The Jasper real
fun.

  “Fine,” she says, throwing her hands up as we make our way to the elevator. “I’ll leave the divine interventions to fate from now on.”

  I chuff through my nose.

  Good. Because I don’t believe in fate.

  Chapter Four

  Jude

  “You know I still don’t agree with any of this,” my sister, Lo, sighs into the phone.

  “Yep.” Pretty sure she made that crystal clear at least thirty-eight times before I left the apartment earlier this week.

  “You have my support but not my approval,” she says.

  She said the same thing when I enlisted in the Army a decade ago.

  “Ah. Good to know.” As of a few days ago, I had nothing from her but dirty looks and rolled eyes.

  “You’re a good person, Jude,” she says. “And I know you think you’re doing this for the right reasons. I know you’ve justified this a hundred times already. But just … be careful.”

  “You guys should come check out the place sometime,” I change the subject. What’s done is done. The train has left the station. There’s no getting off, no turning around. “There’s tons of room for the girls to run around. I bet they’d love it.”

  Lo pauses, and I can just picture her hand smacking across her forehead because she knows I’m redirecting the conversation.

  I begin to add that there’s a fountain outside they’d love, but I’m interrupted by a knock at the door. Pulling my phone from my ear, I check the time.

  10:04 PM.

  This is odd.

  “Lo, can I call you back?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s at the door. I’ll call you back, all right?” I hang up before she has a chance to ask another question, and then I head for the door, squinting through the spyhole and smirking when I see a pretty little blonde standing on the other side of the door.

  Taking a closer look, I see she’s wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe.