The Pre-Nup Read online

  “Well? I’m waiting.”

  “Do you not remember what you instructed me to do before I left Phoenix?”

  The rivulets of cold sweat started up again on her neck. “So you did kiss her.”

  “I’m not going to answer that.” Josh resumed walking toward Eric and signaled the bartender for a beer. “But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m finished with this push-me-pull-you bullshit. Bentlie was right—”

  “Alex,” Mara corrected.

  “Whatever you want to call her, she was right. You’re punishing me for something you did, and I’ve had it.” He dusted off his hands. “You’re scared to make a commitment? You refuse to get married without a bunch of legal loopholes? Fine. We won’t get married.” He opened his mouth to continue, but she was so terrified to hear his next pronouncement that she cut him off with “Let’s do it. Right now.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get married.”

  “Can we please be serious here?”

  “I am serious. Let’s do it! Come on!” She was starting to hyperventilate a bit, but tried to parlay this into giddy enthusiasm. “We can be at a drive-through chapel in less than ten minutes. No muss, no fuss, no pre-nup. You win.”

  “Get real.” He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “You’re not ready to get married tonight. Neither am I. I don’t think we’ll ever be ready.”

  “What are you saying?” She reached out to touch his face, but he flinched away.

  “I’m saying good-bye, Mara.” He changed direction and headed for the exit. The dancer’s words echoed through her mind: You’re spoiled and selfish. You don’t deserve him.

  So Mara let him leave and realized too late that a woman with a fake name, fake breasts, and a fake hair color knew her better than she knew herself.

  Ten minutes and several sodden tissues later, Mara emerged from the restroom and scanned the bar area for Eric. But he had abandoned his earlier post, and she finally located him by a small round table in the middle of the room, slouched deep into a black leather chair and surrounded by a bevy of undulating blondes.

  She sat down next to him. “I’d offer to buy you a lap dance, but I’d say you’ve already got an embarrassment of riches here.”

  “Yeah. So?” Eric threw some cash down on the table-cloth without even looking up from his Scotch and soda. “At least they’re not pretending to care about me because they feel sorry for me.”

  “Oh boy.” Mara settled in and made herself comfortable. “You know, for a guy surrounded by hot, naked chicks, you seem pretty depressed.”

  “No offense, but I’m trying to have a little guy time here.”

  She nodded toward the stack of money. “Well then, I should probably tell you that you’re supposed to put those in their G-strings.”

  He glanced up at her long enough to notice her red-rimmed eyes. “What happened to you?”

  “That is a long and ultimately pointless tale. Let’s focus on someone who actually has a shot in hell of saving their relationship: you.”

  “Where’s Josh?” He finally gave her his full attention, and the dancers, sensing that the cash flow was drying up, drifted off toward more promising prospects at neighboring tables.

  “He left,” she said flatly.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  He indicated his Scotch. “Want the rest of that?”

  “Nah, I think it’s best for everyone involved that I self-medicate with carbs instead of alcohol tonight. Where’s the rest of the bachelor party?”

  Eric shrugged. “They’re around here somewhere. Or not. Maybe they went back to the casino. It was every man for himself after Josh went in to the VIP room.”

  “Clearly, men do not share the strict no-desertion code of honor that girlfriends do.” She shook her head. “Jeez. Who leaves a guy in your condition alone with a bottle and a bunch of strippers?”

  “I want to be alone. If you wouldn’t mind…”

  “Sorry. I can’t just abandon you to the vagaries of the Black Diamond.”

  “Sure you can. It’s easy.”

  “Nope. Jen would never forgive me.”

  Eric’s expression darkened. “Say her name again and I’m outta here.”

  “Look. I know you’re not in the mood for this, but the thing you have to realize about Jen is—”

  “Isn’t there a no-harassment code of honor? You don’t hear me yapping about Josh.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing left to yap about. He’s done. I made it impossible for him to love me.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “No, I mean, I wish I could just turn it off like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Being in love sucks. It’s like a drug. It’s like…diet soda.”

  “Well, you know, there’s a cure for that now.”

  Eric set his jaw. “So tell me about Patrick. Just get it over with. Is she seeing him again?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “Forget Patrick. Let me tell you about Jen instead.”

  He paused for a moment. The strobe lights onstage threw glints of gold across his face. “I could take her company away from her. In the divorce. Part of me really wants to do it. Just so she’ll know what it’s like to put in all that time and effort and get nothing back.”

  Mara nodded and waited.

  “I won’t actually do it.” He prodded the ice cubes in his glass. “Probably.”

  She sighed and waved away an approaching dancer. “Jen and I go back a long way. Almost as far as you and Jen go back.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was her BFF before you and Ellie were her BFFs.”

  “You’re not her BFF; you’re her husband.”

  “Soon to be ex-husband.”

  “Hear me out, Eric. It’s not that she doesn’t love you.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly what it is.”

  “She’s afraid. But she’s trying. Aren’t you going to give her a chance?”

  “I gave her five years’ worth of chances. If Patrick wants her so bad, he can have her.”

  “But she doesn’t want him, she wants you.”

  “Then how come she’s off in L.A. promoting Noda instead of trying to win me back?”

  “That’s not fair,” Mara objected. “The Rory Reid gig is a once-in-a-lifetime—”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?” He challenged, his eyes flashing with anger. “You had problems with Josh and you took action. You didn’t sit around waiting for him to come to you.”

  “I wouldn’t use Josh and me as the benchmark for a healthy relationship.”

  “Still, you’re trying.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “Not anymore,” he agreed.

  “But you love her.”

  He shrugged. “Irrelevant. You’ve got the right idea. You have to protect yourself.”

  She leaned forward and put on the game face she used when preparing to negotiate with a fellow attorney. “What would it take? What would Jen have to do to show you that she really wants to be with you ’til death do you part?”

  He drained the last of his drink and put the glass down with a thump. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t be difficult.”

  “I’m not. I’m being literal. She’d have to do nothing. Stop letting Noda and Patrick and everything else consume her whole life.”

  She sat back. “You want Jen Finnerty to do nothing?”

  “Yep. Talk about a long shot, huh?”

  “Well, sometimes long shots pay off. And when they do, you win big.”

  “But most of the time, you lose.”

  “Take a look around, my friend.” She opened her arms to encompass all the drinks and debauchery. “We’re sitting smack dab in the middle of the world capital of long shots. Are you feeling lucky?”

  He half smiled. “Is that an invitation to the poker table?”

  “Hey, as long as you’re throwing money away, I’d be happy to let you st
ake me.”

  “You’re on.”

  Jen Chapter 18

  You have bone structure to die for,” raved the makeup artist as she daubed rosy cream blush onto Jen’s cheeks. “And your complexion! Flawless! What’s your secret?”

  Jen gazed glumly into the brightly lit mirror set up in Rory Reid’s backstage greenroom. “Oh, you know. Water. Vegetables. Clean living.”

  “Well, you must save a fortune on facials.” The stylist finished up with the blush and moved on to mascara. “The smog out here absolutely chokes my pores. And it doesn’t help that I practically live on take-out and diet soda.”

  A few days ago, Jen would have seized this opportunity to spread the gospel of Noda, but this morning, she couldn’t muster the enthusiasm.

  Apathy and pessimism had definitely set in. She knew that she was poised at the top of what would probably be a long, slippery descent into depression. She would have to take preventative measures. Soon. Maybe tomorrow. But today…eh, who really cared?

  “Hi there! What’re you in for?” A taut-faced brunette in a spangly red sweater and white jeans slid into the revolving chair next to Jen.

  Jen’s confusion must have shown on her face, because the woman laughed and offered up a dainty hand dripping in diamonds. “I’m Whitley Westphal, here to worship at the altar of Rory and shill my new jewelry line.”

  Jen nibbled her lip and tried to place the name. “Whitley Westphal? Aren’t you the—”

  “Divinely talented diva who sang the one-hit wonder ‘Something in the Water’ back in 1997?” the woman rattled off. “Why, yes I am. You probably recognize me from the bargain bin at Best Buy or on VH1’s Where Are They Now?”

  “No, no.” Jen furrowed her brow. “You married a baseball player, right?”

  Whitley shrieked with delight. “Oh, sugar, you’ve just made his day! Brick! Brick, get over here! This woman knows who you are. I told you you still had groupies!”

  A gangly, elderly man shambled over from the corner. He clutched a white Chanel handbag in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. “Brick Milton. Pleased to make your acquaintance. You must be a true-blue Dodger fan, young lady.”

  Brick Milton. That name clicked right away. “You’re a pitching legend,” Jen gushed, breaking every self-imposed rule she had about fawning over celebrities. “Number seventy-eight, right?”

  “That’s him!” Whitley sat back in her chair and patted her husband’s forearm as if he were a particularly clever poodle performing a trick.

  Brick smiled shyly. “You really know your stuff. That was decades ago.”

  “My husband worships you.” Jen reached down, grabbed her handbag, and searched for something to write on. “I hate to be a nuisance, but would you mind signing an autograph for him? He’ll be devastated that he missed meeting you. He’s going to die!”

  Her smile wavered as she remembered that Eric wouldn’t be there when she got home to hear tales of her brushes with the rich and famous. She didn’t even know where he was staying.

  But it was too late to call off Brick. He accepted the airline ticket jacket she’d handed over and paused, his pen at the ready. “What’s your husband’s name? Anything special you’d like me to write?”

  “Um…” She fumbled for words. “His name’s Eric. And you can just write…um…”

  Whitley regarded her with creaseless, Botoxed concern. “Are you all right, sugar? You look a bit peaked.”

  Jen shrugged one shoulder. “Just stage fright, I guess. I’ve never done a live national TV show.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Whitley assured her. “Why, I remember when I sang the national anthem at the World Series. I was a nervous wreck.”

  “Is there a Jennifer Finnerty in here?” An intern holding a huge vase of red and pink flowers bustled through the door.

  Jen raised one hand. “Right here.”

  “These are for you.” The intern plopped the vase down without ceremony, tossed a tiny white envelope at Jen, and hightailed it back out to the hallway.

  While Whitley and the makeup artist oohed and aahed over the bouquet, Jen opened the card with shaking hands and read a single, simple sentence:

  Knock ’em dead

  “Are they from your hubby?” Whitley asked. “That is too precious for words.” She turned to Brick. “Why don’t you ever do anything romantic like that for me?”

  “I just bought you a house in Santa Ynez,” Brick protested.

  “Yeah, but that’s a good investment.” Whitley pouted. “I’m talking about gentlemanly tokens of love and affection.”

  “I’m holding your purse, aren’t I?”

  Jen blocked out their bickering and focused on the three little words typed on the white card. Maybe Eric had decided to give her one last chance. Maybe he’d started to miss her the way she missed him.

  She excused herself from the makeup chair and hurried into the ladies’ room. She dialed Eric’s cell number, crossed her fingers, and sighed with relief when he picked up.

  “’Lo?” he slurred after a few seconds of static.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jen demanded. “You sound—”

  “Hungover.” Eric groaned. “In Vegas.”

  “Ah, yes. The bachelor party.” She knew she should leave well enough alone, but she had to ask. “And how was the strip club?”

  “Naked. Depressing. Expensive. The usual.” He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her, which she took as an auspicious sign. He had sent the flowers. Love! Hope! Second chances!

  “So, listen.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll never guess who’s in the greenroom with me.”

  “Greenroom?” He paused. “Oh, right. You’re doing that show today.”

  And the Lord taketh away.

  “You forgot.” She crumpled up the card in her hand and pitched it into the wastebasket next to the sink.

  “I’ve been busy,” he said, a tad defensively. “Doing crazy things. Things that would shock you.”

  Jen smiled in spite of herself. “Really? Like what?”

  “Losing money, mostly,” he admitted. “Mara kicked my ass at the poker table.”

  “Wait, why were you playing poker with Mara? I thought she was going out there to talk to Josh.”

  “Josh wasn’t available, so she had to talk to me. We stayed up all night gambling and eating. Well, she ate. I drank. Which didn’t help my poker game.”

  “May I ask what you two discussed?”

  “It’d be better if you didn’t.” He coughed. “Is Patrick with you?”

  “No! Why would you even think that?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because he answers the phone when I call my own house?”

  Jen took a deep breath. “I didn’t invite him yesterday, he just showed up on my doorstep. Our doorstep. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Ms. Finnerty? Is everything all right?”

  Jen covered the phone mouthpiece and called back, “Everything’s great, thanks!”

  “Okay, well, you’re on in a few minutes, so…”

  “I’ll be there!” Jen double-checked the lock on the door and waded back into the argument at hand. “You have every right to be upset, but I love you, honey. Come home. Please. At least let me explain what happened.”

  Another knock at the door. “Ms. Finnerty? We really need you on-set right now.”

  “Go ahead,” Eric said. “Take Noda national. You deserve this.”

  “But it’s half yours,” Jen choked out. “More than half yours.”

  “All I really did was write a check. You did the work. You made the sacrifices.”

  “But—”

  “Bye, Jen.”

  She emerged in a daze from the restroom and allowed the production assistant to usher her down the hall.

  “We’re set for your segment as soon as we come back from break,” the P.A. informed her. “Rory will introduce the product; we’ve put a few bottles of it out on the
coffee table for close-ups. And please remember we’re live, so watch your language.”

  Jen nodded numbly and tried to recapture the frisson of excitement she’d felt when Deb had first called her about appearing on the show.

  “All right, you’re on.” The production assistant shoved Jen out of the shadows, and a smattering of applause broke out in the audience. “Good luck.”

  Knock’ em dead.

  She threw back her shoulders and strode into the spotlight with a bright smile on her face and a twist of despair in her heart.

  Ellie Chapter 19

  Stay calm and let me do the talking.” Karen Hamilton, Ellie’s divorce attorney, adjusted the tasteful pearl and platinum brooch affixed to the lapel of her gray suit jacket. “These are just initial negotiations. We’ve got a long way to go before we hammer out a final settlement.”

  “I’ll stay calm,” Ellie promised, though her heart rate accelerated at the prospect of facing Michael for the first time since he’d kissed her good-bye at the airport. “But I just got the water bill in the mail. And the mortgage statement and the car lease note. So do we just pass those along to him, or…?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get to all that in good time.”

  Mara hadn’t been kidding when she praised Karen Hamilton as unflinching and unflappable. Ellie had met with her lawyer several times now and had yet to see her express any hint of emotion.

  “I won’t panic,” Ellie chanted softly. “I won’t panic.”

  “Good.” Karen led the way into the hushed, sumptuously appointed conference room of her downtown legal firm.

  Ellie glanced at the heavy blue drapes and gleaming dark wood bookshelves until her gaze locked on to Michael. He was seated across the wide mahogany table with Terry Dawes, a ruddy-faced, squinty-eyed lawyer whom Mara had described as “the unholy love child of a pit bull and Giorgio Armani.”

  While their attorneys exchanged cordial hellos, Ellie and Michael sized each other up like prizefighters circling in the ring.

  Stay strong, Ellie admonished herself. Stay focused on the long-term goal: security for Hannah. Don’t get distracted by love or anxiety or grief.