Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Accepted. Now let’s get to the good part. When are we getting a divorce, Daphne?”
“It’s Duffy.”
“Bless you.”
“No, my name. All my friends call me Duffy. I suppose you should too.”
“Fine. When are we getting a divorce, Duffy?”
“So, here’s the thing.” She licked her lips. “It could take up to thirty-six months for me to get a green card—”
“Three fucking years?” I spluttered. “Aren’t you supposed to get a temporary passport stamp or whatever in the meantime?”
“Well, yes, you do. But then if we stick it out for two years—shouldn’t take more than twenty-four months, really—and prove our marriage is legit—”
I held my hand up. “Our marriage will not be legit.”
“Come on. It isn’t like they have a way of knowing this.” She waved a dismissive hand my way. “Think about it. I can help you with whatever you need at work.” She pushed off the cabinet, pacing back and forth in an attempt to come up with more pros.
“Oh!” She stopped, snapping her fingers. “Gretchen mentioned earlier that you don’t have accommodations? You could absolutely stay with me temporarily. My fridge is full and my settee is quite comfy.”
“Full of this?” I raised the container with the berries. “No, thank you.”
“You must need a place to sleep.” She frowned at me.
“Finding a place to crash has never been an issue.” I could buy a whole damned hotel if I wanted to.
“But why ask for favors? You’re what? Thirty-eight? Forty?” She scanned me head to toe.
“Thirty-seven.” My ego was dust and a distant memory at this point.
“Right.” She smiled politely, revealing a stunning white smile and zero warmth behind it. “Soz.”
I couldn’t figure her out. Why couldn’t she marry her main piece?
Maybe he wasn’t American. Whatever he was, I didn’t need a jealous boyfriend in the picture. Then again, if Duffy and I were having this conversation, there was no chance the guy truly gave a crap. I’d never been in love, but both my best friends were disgustingly and happily married, so I knew what love looked like. If Arya or Winnie had spontaneously decided to marry someone else, both grooms would be scattered in cube-size pieces all over New York in a CSI-style scavenger hunt.
I popped some berries into my mouth as I spun in her chair like a child. “Tell you what. Let’s wait for your temporary visa first. That buys you time to find a job that will sponsor you. And if the arrangement works out—and no offense, but I wouldn’t bet my chips on it—we can stay married until your green card is secured. If not, you’ll grant me a divorce. A nice and quick one, or I tell the authorities you blackmailed me into doing so. Final offer.”
She looked like she was about to argue, first opening her mouth, then pursing her lips reluctantly. Finally, she nodded. “Fair.”
I stood up and thrust my hand in her direction. She looked down at it like I was offering her chlamydia. Her stuffiness was starting to get on my last nerve. I almost withdrew when she apparently decided to bite the bullet and place her hand in mine. Her shake was cold and dry. Her beauty was sadly wasted on one of the most horrible women I’d had the displeasure to meet.
Duffy despising me was great news to both of us. The last thing I needed was for my fiancée to tolerate me.
“How does it feel?” I peered down at her purple eyes.
“How does what feel?” She glowered.
“To catch genital herpes through a handshake.”
If she enjoyed my joke, she chose to show it by visibly gagging. She stepped back and wiped her hand on her dress.
“Don’t be so stuck up. I promise to keep my STDs to myself.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Oh, and Dina?”
“Duffy.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?” She looked like she was bracing herself for a blow.
“How open would you be to changing your name to Desiree?”
CHAPTER FIVE
RIGGS
Later that night, I stopped at the Brewtherhood, a bar favored by aging hipsters. There was nothing overtly special about it, other than the fact that it was too run-down to attract tourists, and the playlist swung heavily toward ’90s and early 2000s music.
Arsène, Christian, and I sat at the bar. I was crashing at Christian’s while in town. Since I had just become betrothed, I was racking my brain for a creative way to tell him his bedroom would be needed for a few more weeks while Duffy and I tied the knot and filled out paperwork. No fucking way was I sharing a confined space with Cruella de Vil. Cohabitating a city seemed too much at this point.
Both my friends’ wives were great catches, albeit in different ways. Christian’s Arya was a bossy, sassy, red-heeled ballbuster with world-domination aspirations, and Arsène’s Winnie was a doe-eyed actress with a southern drawl and the best peach pies on the East Coast. They both seemed chill about my using their places as hostels. It was Arsène and Christian who wanted me out of their hair so they could continue humping their partners’ legs uninterrupted.