That was the most awkward situation she’d ever been in. They better get their story straight before she had to face the Elliotts again.
Though she’d never been good at lying, there were moments when it wasn’t so bad. Like when she and Dexter had talked about their fake first date. The Tex-Mex restaurant, those drinks, and all the while, Dexter had slid his hand up her back, making her relaxed and calm and…something else.
Jules closed her eyes, thinking more about that touch, and how it had felt so familiar that she knew where his hand would go next. No doubt about it, she was remembering another part of last night.
Before her memory could advance any further, she jumped a mile when the car behind her honked. She jammed into gear and continued down the road, heart pumping fast, palms sweaty. Not out of fear, but from whatever that “something else” was.
There couldn’t be a “something else” with Dexter. Well, apparently there had been for maybe five seconds last night when neither of them knew what they were doing. But there would never be again. Even if she wasn’t already dead-set against falling in love or emotionally losing herself over a guy, that guy would never be womanizer Dexter.
No reason to think about his hands or that kiss.
Was it their first kiss? No, that had been in the limo. At least that was a solid memory.
Grrr. Doesn’t matter. Stop thinking about it.
With one hand, Jules grabbed her purse and fished for the business card in the side pocket, refreshing her memory of where the law office of Quentin Sanders was located. It was right off Main Street, so Jules drove past the streetlights shaped as silver Hershey’s Kisses, then hung a right on Cocoa Avenue. She pulled into the lot, making sure not to park too close to another car. Dexter’s BMW was worth more than she’d make in a year doing massages.
The office suites were on the fourth floor, and she took the stairs, needing to burn off energy and get a little cardio in after sitting for so long. No joke, she really was sore from last night.
No one was in the lobby. No one at the reception desk either, though voices came from down the hall.
“Hello? Anybody home?”
“One second,” someone answered back.
Out of habit, she smoothed down her hair that was always unsmoothable and played with the key ring until she heard footsteps. “Hi,” she said to a guy in a suit. “My name’s Juliet Bloom. I’m here to see Quentin Sanders.”
“You’re looking at him.”
Jules eyed the guy. “The Quentin Sanders I spoke with on the phone sounded a lot older.”
“That must’ve been my father. I’m Quentin Junior. Call me Quent. Dad and I share a practice. Sorry, he doesn’t have many clients left, so I assumed you meant me.”
“Oh.” Jules smiled, even though the nervous tremble in her stomach was still trembling away. At least now she wouldn’t have to hire her own lawyer to fight that clause in Grams’s will. “Is your father here? I just got into town and we had a standing appointment. He said I could drop in whenever I arrived.”
Quent rubbed his chin. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“A week ago.”
“Oh.” He scratched his head. He was kind of a fidgety guy. “There’s a problem. My father’s in Reykjadalur.”
Jules’s mouth fell open. “Iceland?”
“The hot springs help his arthritis, so he goes whenever he… Sorry, anyway, Dad’s not here. I’m sorry you came all this way.”
“But I’ve got to sign papers. He’s my grandmother’s lawyer—or was. Grandma died and left me her house in the will. The reading was two months ago but I couldn’t be here for that and the funeral—I couldn’t be away from work that long. But I know Grams left it to me, we talked about it, then your father called and said there was one legal matter I had to see him about before I can take ownership.”
Jules already knew what that one legal matter was…
Quent nodded. “If it’s just that, your signature will be sufficient, and I can notarize. Just have to find your grandmother’s folder. Come back to my office.”
Feeling antsy, Jules followed him down a hall. If something went wrong with getting Grams’s cottage, where would she live? She’d already given notice at the spa and told her landlord she’d be out at the end of the month. If she couldn’t get the cottage, she’d be homeless.
And who goes to Iceland for arthritis therapy, anyway?
“Have a seat,” Quent said. “Sorry, what was your grandmother’s name?”
“Rosemary Granger.”
“Rosy?”
“You knew her?”
“She was one of Dad’s oldest friends. He was very sad about her passing. I’m sure he wishes he could be here to do this himself.”
“Thanks,” Jules said, touched.
“I’ll find the files and be right back.” A few minutes later, he reappeared and sat behind a big desk. “Okay,” he said, flipping through papers in a folder. “Ah, here it is, and a Post-it with your name on it.”
Quent ran a finger over the pages, mumbling as he read to himself. “Right. Okay. Rosy left one Juliet Bloom her primary residence at 32 Lakeview Drive. Oh wow, it’s really close to the water.”
“The back deck faces Conewago Lake.” She couldn’t help smiling, remembering the dozens of times she and Grams had dragged chairs all the way out to the shore and hung out at the lake all day.
“Are you going to keep it or sell?”
“Sell?” Jules was affronted. “I’d never sell Grams’s house.”
“I was wondering, because you could probably get the upper five hundreds for it. Depending on its condition.”
This made Jules laugh under her breath. “The condition isn’t great, but I don’t care. It’s been my summer home for as long as I can remember. What did you mean by upper five hundreds?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars if it was on the market.”
Jules’s jaw dropped.
“A place near the water in today’s economy, people are buying vacation homes again, driving up prices.”
Jules couldn’t speak. Did Grams know she was sitting on a property worth half a million dollars? Probably not. Grams cared as much about money as Jules did—which was nothing.
“I plan on making some minor renovations,” she finally said. “To make it my own. Grams wanted me to.”
“Well then, let me finish reading the details of the will. You have your ID?”
“Driver’s license, social security card, and birth certificate.”
“Perfect. I’ll, um… Oh, huh. This is odd.”
Here it comes.
“There seems to be a, well there’s a stipulation regarding your inheritance.”
“Stipulation?” She hoped her voice didn’t squeak.
“A rather specific one. Looks binding, though. It’s in regards to your marital status. You don’t get your grandmother’s house unless you’re married.”
Showtime.
“Oh, that?” She waved a hand and crossed her legs. “Yes, Grams could be eccentric about some things. Old-fashioned. Who knows why she put that in the will. Moot point, though—I’m married.” She held up her left hand, wiggling her fanned out fingers, that gold band flashing under the fluorescent lights.
Though it was technically a true statement, Jules felt her neck start to sweat, and her cheeks were probably bright red. If she started hiccupping, the guy would get suspicious.
Unfortunately, among other things, nerves made her overly chatty. At the worst possible times.
“We got married yesterday.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “This morning, actually. We flew to Las Vegas. Well, no, he did, I live there, so we just sort of met up and…” Now her face was getting hot, and her neck was surely marbling like hell. “I have the license to prove it. Um, no, Dexter does. I’ll show it to you.”
“Dexter?”
“Elliott.”
Quent sat back in his chair and dropped his pen on the desk. “You marrie
d Dexter Elliott. Today.”
“Yes?” Crap, crap, crap. At least sound sure about it.
“I’ve known Dexter my whole life.” His expression changed. Instead of a sweet estate lawyer, he looked like an ambulance chaser. “Well now. Small world.”
Jules fidgeted in her seat. “Can I sign, and you give me the key to the house and…”
“You can sign now, sure, but I also need the signature of your husband. Bring him by next week. We’re closed Monday.”
Jules couldn’t wait until next week. She had to take ownership of the house today, or blow unnecessary money on a hotel. She didn’t have that extra ten grand yet, after all.
“Would it be possible to take the papers to him? I know it’s Saturday, but he’s just as anxious to get the cottage. I can sort of run them up to the house, have him sign, then bring them right back. Will that work?”
“No can do.” Quent eyed her in a suspicious way, almost as if he wanted to bust her. “I have to be there as witness.”
“Can you come with me? You expense mileage, right? Just bill me for however long it takes. It’s not far from here—you can follow me.”
“I know exactly where the Elliotts live.”
“Please?” Jules tried not to sound as fretful as she felt. “It would mean so much to me.” She smiled at him and tilted her head, but then remembered she was a married woman and wasn’t supposed to be smiling like that at other men. “To the both of us, Dex and me.”
He looked at her for a second, then finally nodded. “Sure. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen old Dex. Wouldn’t mind dropping in on the Elliotts. It’s been even longer since I’ve been up to their place.”
“Great! No time like the present!” Her voice was way too high and squeaky. She tried to calm down as she walked with Quent outside. He was parked in back of the office building and said he’d meet her at the house.
Jules slammed into reverse, knowing she needed to get to Dexter before Quent, needed two seconds to explain the situation. Would he totally flip out, thinking she’d planned to…what? Roofie him into marrying her so she could inherit a house? Why not? She’d suspected, on even a tiny level, that he’d done the same thing to win the bet.
The Bimmer roared down the street, tires screeching as she made a sharp left. At an annoyingly long red light, she fished through the bottom of her purse, feeling for her tiny flip phone. This was definitely an emergency. Crap, man—the thing was as dead as Hamlet. She tossed it on the passenger seat and floored it the rest of the way.
The space where the BMW was parked earlier was still open, so Jules pulled in, set the brake, then ran full speed up the driveway, nearly tripping over her long skirt. Tires crunched on gravel behind her. Shoot—Quent.
Without bothering to knock, she pushed through the front door.
Voices came from the kitchen, but she didn’t hear Dexter’s. Panting, she crept down the hall and peered out the window to the backyard. There he was, holding a beer and talking to Luke. This was her only shot, and managing to pull him away from one Elliott was better than a whole pack of them. With heart racing, she poked her head out the French doors.
“Psst. Dex.” But he was oblivious. “Dexter,” she called in a hissy whisper. As her excellent karma would have it, Luke punched Dexter’s shoulder and walked off. Jules didn’t waste a second before flying out the door, grabbing his arm and pulling him away. “I need to”—she paused to pant—“talk to you.”
“Hey.” His brow furrowed as he looked behind her. Her behavior must’ve made it seem like she was being chased. “Why do you look so—”
“Shhh. Shut up.” She yanked his arm. This time he followed as she tugged him around the corner behind a tree. “Lawyer,” she said, still out of breath. “Signature…yours…Iceland.”
“Say what?” Dexter stepped back and stared. “What are you talking about?”
“The cottage. Grams…husband, you have to…sign.”
“Oh.” He ran a fist across his forehead, miraculously able to decipher her nonsentences. “Since we’re married, I have to sign?”
Close enough. She held her breath and nodded.
“Okay, okay. Did you bring it with you? It’s fine, I’ll sign now and we’ll figure out the legal stuff later. Oh, but first, there’s something I have to tell you, and you’re not going to like it.” When he put his warm, heavy hands on both her shoulders, it slowed her down—the same way it did in her memory of them together. The strength of his hands. Their weight. “You know how you ran out of here earlier like you were about to be sick?”
“I was sick,” Jules said. “Sick of lying.”
“I know. Everyone saw that and now… It’s kind of funny if you think about it, but they assumed you’re—” He cut off and stared at something over her shoulder. That concerned look in his eyes was replaced by fury. “What the hell is he doing here?” he said in a voice so sharp she felt it in her spine.
Jules turned to see lawyer Quent coming around the corner.
“Well, well, Dexter Elliott. I hear congratulations are in order.”
…
The moment he laid eyes on Quentin Sanders, a hot wrath burned under Dexter’s collar that he hadn’t felt in years.
“What are you doing here?”
Quent smiled like a used-car salesman. “Offering my best wishes,” he said and extended his hand. Dexter didn’t acknowledge it.
Maybe that was why Jules was acting so freaked—trying to warn him that Quent was here. But why would she think to warn him? How would she have any idea about their past? Vince didn’t know. Had Roxy told her? Not possible. His sister still didn’t know the truth.
Begrudgingly, Dexter stepped away from Jules and shook his hand, mainly because other people on the patio could see them now, and it wouldn’t be good manners to punch the guy out in front of the mayor.
“Thanks,” Dexter said. Offering best wishes, my ass. The guy hasn’t had a sincere bone in his body since high school. “This is Jules.”
“I’ve met your wife. We came from my office together.”
“Your office?” He glanced at Jules. She wasn’t red and marbly and hiccuppy like before, but there was definitely something urgent happening with her face.
He took a second to recall what she’d said when she grabbed him a minute ago, looking all flushed and breathless. For a moment then, he couldn’t help staring into her eyes, big and green and earnest, her fingers digging into his arm. Something about Iceland and lawyers. Oh, right. She needed his signature.
“He’s the attorney handling your grandmother’s estate?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding a little calmer.
“Okay.” He cleared his throat and looked at Quent. “Do you have something for me to sign? Let’s go inside to the study.”
“I thought we should talk first,” Quent said. “I’ve been practicing law less than a year, so I owe the estate and my firm due diligence.”
“About…?”
He lifted another used-car salesman smile. “For all I know, your marriage is a sham.”
Automatically, Dexter’s stomach and jaw tightened. “Why would you say that?”
“Coincidental. Juliet happens to inherit a house worth an easy five hundred grand, but only if she married.”
“Half a mil?” Dexter looked at her.
She was pale again and knotting the front of her shirt. Dammit. His new wife shouldn’t look so uncomfortable around her husband. Not if Quent was watching their every move.
“Honey,” he said, cupping her elbow, gazing as deeply into her eyes as he could.
Bring it down, Flower Power. Easy, easy. Do one of your yoga mantras.
“She told me you two got married in Las Vegas—this morning.” Quent scratched under his chin. “This is where the coincidence gets real.”
“So?” Dexter crossed his arms, widened his stance. “Do you doubt my wife? Or me?” He kept his eyes focused on the newbie lawyer he’d known for nine unfortunate years. �
�You know I’m not the one who tells false stories for kicks.”
Okay, yes, Dexter was currently in the middle of a whopper of a false story, but the difference between him and Quent was that Quent told lies to hurt people on purpose.
Specifically—Roxy.
Quent didn’t even blink at the comment. “Why should I believe you? There’s a lot of money at stake.”
“Five hundred g’s?” Dexter scoffed. “You think that amount means anything to me?”
“Hey, this has nothing to do with money,” Jules said, annoyance in her voice.
Dexter put a hand on the small of her back and dipped his mouth to her ear. “Let me handle this,” he whispered. “Okay, Shoopy?” It took a moment, but when she finally unclenched her teeth, Dexter slid his arm around her.
“Look,” he said to Quent, “you have no idea about our relationship or how long we’ve been together. You come to this house and insult us on the day we get married, the day before my brother gets married, while my entire family is here.”
“Your entire family?” Quent said, cocking an eyebrow.
That was it. Dexter saw red, and he was two seconds from throwing the guy out with his bare hands. “Don’t,” he snarled under his breath. “Do not go there.”
Finally, Quent’s smug expression flinched.
“If you have something for me to sign,” Dexter added after a beat, “I suggest you hand it over, then get the hell off this property. You’re trespassing.”
“She invited me.” He pointed at Jules.
“She didn’t know.”
Quent reached into the inside pocket of his suit.
“Not here,” Dexter said. “In the study.” He splayed his fingers across Jules’s back and they all started to walk.
“Dex?” his mother called, stepping onto the patio, holding a drink and wearing a Kentucky Derby-type sun hat. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Wedding present for us.”
“Really?” Roxy followed Mom outside, and Dexter almost pushed his unwelcome guest out of sight. But it was too late. “Quent!”
More fiery red crowded his vision as he watched his little sister once more naively rush to Quent’s side. He couldn’t compute what they were saying to each other; maybe his brain was purposefully blocking it out.
Wife for the Weekend Page 7
