The Pre-Nup Page 11

She sat back in her chair. “Josh…”

  “What?” He grinned. “Don’t think that’s not a factor. But come on, you know why I love you. You’re smart and fun and secretly do all kinds of nice, thoughtful things when you think no one’s looking. Like all the charity stuff with Ellie and Jen.”

  “I only do that because they harass me until I’m teetering on the ragged edge of sanity.”

  “Trust me, you’re very lovable.”

  “Well, frankly, I think you could do better.”

  “That’s part of your problem,” he said. “You’re so hard on yourself. Whenever anything’s less than perfect, you just want to write it off. Life doesn’t work that way. You screw up, you move on.”

  “Well.” Mara straightened up in her seat. “You say that, but sometimes it’s not so easy to move on.”

  Neither of them explicitly mentioned the incident in San Diego, but they didn’t have to.

  “Oh no.” He grabbed the cocktail menu. “Are we back on that again?”

  “Of course. We’re always going to go back to that, and it puts me at a permanent disadvantage.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “The pre-nup,” she said. “That’s where I’m going. If you really forgave me, you’d—”

  “Let you walk all over me and call all the shots?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’m not going to back down on this, Mara.”

  Googly-eyed couples at neighboring tables were starting to glance their way.

  She forced herself to lower her voice. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since we had that argument last week. You think I don’t listen, but I do.”

  He folded his arms and waited.

  “Signing a pre-nup shouldn’t really be about me protecting myself or you protecting yourself. It should be about each of us protecting the other. We’re a great team; we’re going to be even more successful after we get married. A pre-nup ensures that we’ll both have an equal stake in everything we acquire together.”

  “In the event of a divorce,” Josh clarified.

  “For the last time: we’re not going to get divorced. But by including the cheating clause, you’re negating the shared protection guaranteed by a pre-nup, which defeats the whole purpose. Plus, legally, Arizona is a no-fault state so your attorney is going to have a hell of a time enforcing that clause. Plus, as I believe I’ve mentioned previously, I’m not going to cheat.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” he retorted. “And don’t get all lawyerly on me; you have your principles, and I have mine.”

  She slammed her palm down on the table, rattling the silverware. “You know what? I think I have the answer to all our problems. When’s your bachelor party?”

  “We fly to Vegas on Thursday night.”

  “All right, you go to Vegas with your buddies and while you’re there, have a one-night stand.”

  He laughed. “Give me a break.”

  “I’m not kidding. I can’t change the past, and obviously, you’re never going to get over it. So go have sex with someone else and then we’ll finally be even.”

  “Mara…”

  “Find yourself a showgirl or a hot blackjack dealer or whatever. Hire a call girl if you want. Just get it over with already.”

  “You’re insane. I’m not going to sleep with someone else.”

  “Why? Because then you won’t have the moral high ground every time we fight? I want you to cheat on me, Josh. I’m begging you to!”

  “Is this some sort of test?” He gave her a long, assessing stare. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

  “Oh, I mean it,” she assured him.

  “You’re telling me to go to Vegas four weeks before our wedding and sleep with someone else?”

  “Correct.” She nodded crisply.

  “Fine, then.” He folded up his napkin. “I’ll do it.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. I’m taking you at your word.” He got to his feet and tossed some cash on the table. “I’ll talk to you when I get back from the bachelor party. When we’re even.”

  Jen Chapter 15

  Jen ran seven miles on Thursday afternoon, pounding across the sandy trail that bordered the desert preserve behind Mayfair Estates, trying to fatigue herself to the point where she could stop thinking about Eric.

  Just pretend he’s on another business trip, she told herself. Just pretend his absence is temporary.

  But as she slowed from a sprint to a lope to a walk, she had to admit the truth: Eric had been absent for a long time now. Months, maybe even years. They both had. She had channeled all her passion into her work and he had…well, she wasn’t exactly sure where he’d turned for fulfillment. Which just went to show how tuned out she’d been.

  She mopped the sweat off her forehead with the sleeve of her baggy cotton T-shirt and squinted into the sunset. They hadn’t even made it to their fifth anniversary. Before she got married, that had seemed like such an easy, unremarkable milestone. She’d had sports bras for longer than five years, for God’s sake. Half a decade of marriage should be a foregone conclusion.

  Everything had changed because of Patrick. He’d pushed Jen and Eric together when he left, and now that he’d returned, he was pulling them apart. And there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. Patrick had sauntered in and usurped all the power. Again.

  Power, when you got right down to it, was the real reason she’d held back a little part of herself from Eric. She’d always known he was more invested in their relationship than she was. She’d never abused that knowledge or given him any reason to waver in his commitment. But she also found solace in the disparity because it guaranteed that her husband could never hurt her the way Patrick had.

  Until yesterday.

  She trudged past the huge stucco mansions with shiny European cars parked in the driveways and wondered what had ever possessed her to move into this neighborhood. Ellie had been assimilated into the country club lifestyle of the Barton clan, and Mara viewed her golf course town house as a good investment with no landscaping maintenance, but Jen had never felt at home in Mayfair Estates. What exactly was she trying to prove with all that square footage?

  Once upon a time, she and Eric had spent hours poring over maps and magazines (“travel porn,” they’d called it), fantasizing about trips to Belize, Kenya, Malaysia. In between overseas excursions, they’d planned to hit all fifty states, starting with beach bungalows in Key West and progressing up to fishing lodges in Alaska. Of course, they had never put in the time or effort to do more than plan. Eric’s travels had been limited to airports and interchangeable business hotels, and Jen hadn’t left Arizona since the honeymoon. She’d barely left her home office.

  Her post-workout endorphin buzz fizzled into a funk by the time she fished her house key out of the tiny pouch sewn into the waistband of her jogging shorts. Before she made it to the bathroom to rinse her face, the kitchen phone started ringing and she detoured down the hall to answer, hoping that it might be Eric.

  “Finally,” Deb barked on the other end of the line. “I’ve been calling your office, your cell—where on earth have you been?”

  Jen grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and twisted off the cap. “Just out for a quick run. What’s up?”

  “What’s up is that your run almost cost you your career. Rory Reid’s people called. One of their scheduled guests canceled and they have an opening for tomorrow, but they need a definite answer from us in the next five minutes.”

  Jen choked on her water.

  “You’ll have to fly to L.A. tonight; the taping’s at ten A.M. I told them you’d be there. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

  Jen’s endorphins kicked back in. “I’ll be there. Absolutely. But what about my talking points? I mean, we haven’t prepped for this kind of—”

  “Don’t worry about all that right now. Just get your ass to
Los Angeles. Call me from the hotel tonight and we’ll go over everything.”

  “But what should I wear?”

  “Something stylish but athletic.” Deb clicked her tongue. “Something that shows off your arms. You have biceps like freaking Madonna; might as well flaunt them.”

  Jen flipped through a mental inventory of her closet. “I have a short-sleeved brown shirtdress. It’s not really season-appropriate, though.”

  “Who cares? You’re selling an image. It’s always summer in Noda land. They have a professional hair-and-makeup team on-set, so tell them to give you a sun-kissed glow. You want to look sporty. One of the Kennedy kids just back from Hyannisport.”

  “Got it,” Jen said. “Call them back and confirm.”

  “Excellent. Now, go book your flight! Pack your bags! Move, move, move!”

  Still lathered in sweat, Jen slammed down the phone and dialed the airlines. The doorbell rang in the middle of her negotiations to try to reserve a seat on a sold-out seven-thirty P.M. flight to LAX.

  “I’ll pay double,” she offered the ticket agent. “Triple. Whatever it takes. I have to get to L.A. tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that flight’s overbooked.”

  “But I’m going to be a guest on the Rory Reid show!”

  The ticket agent sniffed. “Is that so?”

  “Yes! So you see—”

  “And they’re not even flying you out?”

  “Well.” Jen paused. “No.”

  “Then you should have booked this flight two weeks ago.”

  The doorbell chimed again. “Please. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “I can book you through to Orange County,” the agent said. “You’d get in at midnight. That’s the best I can do.”

  Jen dashed into the entry hall, phone in hand, and yanked open the front door.

  Patrick Spillane was standing on her doorstep with a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of cigars in the other.

  “Ma’am?” the airline rep prompted. “Do you want the flight to Orange County?”

  “I’ll call you right back.” Jen hung up and regarded Patrick with suspicion. “What now?”

  “I missed you, too.” He laughed.

  “This is my house.” Jen blocked the doorway by raising one arm, which she immediately lowered when she realized that she might smell less than powder fresh after her run.

  “I’m aware this is your house.” Patrick’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Nice neighborhood. Although that gate is pretty useless; the security guard waved me right through. I could’ve been a serial killer for all he knew.” He held up the wooden box of cigars. “Is Eric here?”

  “Not at the moment.” Jen was suddenly, acutely aware that her face was blotchy, her lips chapped, her hair wind-blown, and her baggy running clothes drenched in perspiration.

  “Too bad. I brought these for him and this”—he hoisted up the bottle of wine—“for you. If memory serves, you’re a sucker for a good cabernet.”

  “Don’t,” Jen said sharply. “Don’t show up at my door with your wine and your cigars and try to pretend like nothing ever happened between us.”

  “I’m not pretending anything.”

  “Well, good. Because things happened. Many things. Bad things.”

  “That’s why I’m trying to start fresh. With you and Eric. The way we left—okay, the way I left—it wasn’t right. And I apologize. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You got that straight.”

  “But I thought we should get reacquainted. As friends. You live in Scottsdale, I live in Scottsdale…it’s a small city.”

  She thinned her lips. “Not that small.”

  He didn’t seem at all offended by her hostility. In fact, he seemed to relish the challenge of winning her over. “I thought it would be better to face each other now, get everything out on the table so we can start over.”

  “I don’t want to start over,” Jen bristled. “And I don’t have time to stand here and debate with you. I have to book a flight to L.A. tonight. So unless you happen to have a connection to a major airline, you can just—”

  “I do, actually. My cousin’s a pilot for Southwest. I can give him a call right now.” He laughed at her expression. “Impressed?”

  “No,” she muttered.

  He whipped out his cell phone. “What time do you need to leave?”

  “Forget it.” She shook her head. “You can’t do this for me.”

  “It’s not a problem.” He punched a few buttons on his keypad. “Name your preferred time of departure.”

  “Patrick…” She ground her molars together, but ushered him inside.

  “Yes?” He was the epitome of Mayfair Estates masculinity: confident, well-mannered, and socially bullet-proof. No wonder the security guard had waved him through.

  “We are never, ever going to be friends.”

  “Duly noted. Departure time?”

  She hesitated a second longer before giving in. “Seven-thirty. But this doesn’t change anything.”

  “Of course not.” He turned away from her as he dialed the phone. “Hey, it’s Patrick…. Right, just got back, so how are you?…Not much, but listen, I need a favor…”

  Jen ducked into the guest bathroom and splashed cold water on her cheeks. She rinsed her hands under the faucet and combed her fingers through her short blond bob, trying to salvage some approximation of style.

  There was a light knock on the door. “You just barely squeaked onto the passenger list for Southwest’s seven-thirty flight to L.A. And I do mean barely; you may have to sit on a flight attendant’s lap. But the good news is, no charge.”

  She knew a thank-you was in order, but all she could manage was, “How’d you finagle that?”

  “Oh, you know me—ever the finagler. So. Am I allowed to ask why you have to fly to California on a moment’s notice?”

  Jen rummaged through the vanity drawer for lip balm. “No.”

  The phone in the kitchen started ringing again. “Want me to get that?” he asked.

  She stepped back, assessed the results of her thirty-second makeover, and reached for the doorknob. “No, that’s okay, I’ll—”

  Too late. By the time she reached the kitchen, Patrick had picked up the cordless extension. “Good afternoon, house of Jen.”

  And then he uttered the words that made Jen go from hot and sweaty to cold and clammy:

  “Hey, Eric. Yeah, it’s Patrick Spillane. From college. How are you these days?…Yeah, I was just in the neighborhood…”

  Jen gasped, but Patrick continued smiling and joking, unaware that he had just detonated the marital equivalent of a hydrogen bomb in her kitchen. “Hey, I brought some cigars over for you. Cubans. I’ll leave them with Jen…. Oh, we’re just catching up on old times. You going to be back in town soon?” Then, suddenly, his face changed. “Oh. Okay. I’ll tell her. Right. Hey, are you—” He jerked the receiver away from his ear and frowned. “Your husband just hung up on me.”

  Jen finally recovered her voice. “Oh. Shit.”

  “I don’t remember him being so sarcastic,” Patrick said. “What’s his deal?”

  “Get out. Get out, get out, get out.” She marched back to the front door and held it open. “And take your contraband cigars with you.”

  “They’re for Eric,” he protested.

  “They’re illegal. You still think the rules don’t apply to you. You still don’t bother to think about how you’re affecting other people.”

  “Why are you yelling? They’re just cigars.”

  “This isn’t about the cigars, Patrick! Just go.” She shoved him out onto the stoop and slammed the front door so hard that the hall mirror fell and cracked against the floor. The she dashed back to the kitchen and tried to reach Eric, but he wasn’t answering his phone.

  According to the digital clock on the microwave, she had exactly twenty minutes to pack if she hoped to make it to the airport in time to catch her flight. She dragged h
er suitcase out of the closet and was in the process of cramming in a fifth pair of shoes (no way was she going to face Rory Reid without an arsenal of fabulous accessories) when Mara called.

  “I don’t have time to talk,” Jen said.

  “Make time,” Mara replied. “This is an emergency.”

  “I have to get to the airport. I’m leaving right now.”

  Mara perked right up. “You’re going to the airport? Perfect timing. Swing by and pick me up, will you? I have to get to Vegas before Josh sleeps with a showgirl.”

  As soon as she flipped on the garage lights, Jen started cursing. Her car sagged to one side with a flat tire, which, upon inspection, proved to be the result of a giant nail puncturing the rubber tread.

  Eric had always predicted that sooner or later, all the debris from the custom home construction sites would wind up in their tires. But she hadn’t spent a lot of time worrying about it; he coddled their cars and always stayed on top of the oil changes and tune-ups. Plus, he was an expert tire changer, so speedy and competent that she had never bothered to learn how to do it herself.

  She hauled her suitcase out to the driveway and called the only person she knew she could count on for help.

  “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I weren’t truly desperate,” she wheedled. “We’re talking the Rory Reid show here. My whole career is on the line and I don’t have time to wait for a cab.”

  “I understand that,” Ellie replied, “but Hannah finally went down for her nap and there’ll be hell to pay if I wake her up.”

  “Why can’t she just sleep in her car seat?” Jen asked.

  “Spoken like a woman who has no children.”

  “I’ll read her bedtime stories on the way!” Jen promised. “Sing with her, tell her stories, whatever you need.”

  “It’s the middle of rush hour. The airport’s forty minutes away with no traffic.”

  “Car pool lane,” Jen said. “Please! If you do this for me, I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Money, slave labor, hit man duties, you name it.”

  “I might take you up on that last one. Guess what I got in the mail today? A certified letter from the brokerage firm that used to handle my retirement account.”