Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Yes, that,” he adds, enthused.
I change in record time, race into the bathroom, take care of business, then toss my toiletries into my suitcase, packing as fast as I run downfield with a football.
No. Faster.
As I stuff the suitcase closed, there’s a knock on the door. “Who’s that?” I ask, right when a muffled voice shouts, “Delivery!”
What delivery?
Hunter brightens. “Brilliant,” he says, heading to the door. “Fantastic. Thanks so much,” I hear him say as I zip my bag.
“Nate. Let’s go,” Hunter calls out, the picture of efficiency.
Thank fuck someone has his wits about him.
I wheel my suitcase to the door, where Hunter holds up a brown paper bag. “Egg sandwiches. I ordered them last night. Hangover cure.”
I could kiss my husband.
I mean, my soon-to-be ex-husband.
And that sobering thought is the real hangover cure.
17
RIGHT FOOT FIRST
NATE
On the ride to the airport, Hunter hands me a sandwich, and I bite into the delicious egg and cheese combo, groaning in culinary pleasure. “Damn,” I say.
But he has no time for food talk. “In the elevator, I googled quick annulments in Nevada. That’s always faster than a divorce. Easier too. Here’s the deal. I’ve checked a few sites, and since we were married in Nevada, all we have to do is complete some annulment documents.”
He rattles off details about getting the documents for the annulment case notarized then filed with the court here.
“Does that mean you have to come back?” I ask, worried about what kind of havoc that would wreak in his life. “I live close enough that I can swing by easily, but what about you?”
“I don’t think I need to come back.” He’s the picture of calm as he reads from his phone. “A bunch of Las Vegas firms say this can be handled remotely. It’s just paperwork, and it’s quick and easy.”
“That’s promising,” I say.
“It is.” Only, he doesn’t sound relieved. “But it means we can’t do it before the flight.”
Yeah, there’s that little hitch. Plus, it’s a Saturday.
“Maybe we can deal with it on Monday,” I say with cautious optimism, then I look at my watch. “Shit. Our flight leaves in an hour and ten minutes.”
“I know.” Hunter’s voice is thin, and his knee bounces.
“We’ll make it,” I reassure him. I reach out to touch his thigh, maybe squeeze it, but then I think better of it. Touching him feels weird today, as if it would send a bad message.
But what? That we had a fun night and now we’re getting our vows annulled?
Yeah, that message, dumbass.
“I’ll just get everything sorted online.” He’s a problem solver—I noticed when he was talking to Harry from Webflix, handling things with such aplomb. “I’ll find the papers, and we’ll file on Monday. Everything I’ve read says the judge should grant the annulment in a few weeks.”
He lets out a long breath, then nods, seeming satisfied.
I take another bite of the egg sandwich, satisfied too.
Mostly.
I feel like my shoes don’t quite fit or my shirt’s too tight. Something’s off.
Oh, right.
That’d be the vibe between us. I ruined a perfectly good hot date with the genius plan to say I do.
“Thanks for looking that up. We need to fix this mess before it turns into a shit show like the way my first marriage ended.” I grimace at the thought and say, reluctantly, “I should talk to my divorce attorney. We can just have her look at everything. Just to be safe.”
I feel like a dick and a half for saying that, but I’ve been down this road. Best to be smart.
He doesn’t see anything adversarial in my suggestion since he says, “I agree. That’s a good plan.”
That’s the opposite of what Oliver said. “I never should have signed a prenup,” my ex whined in the law offices where we signed the divorce papers, since he’d be walking away with nothing.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have fucked other people,” I’d replied.
Gritting my teeth, I push away the terrible memories of my ex-husband while stealing a glance at my next ex-husband.
I groan and slump back in the seat. What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep screwing up my romantic life?
“You okay?” His question is gentle.
I blink open my eyes. He’s so caring, and what did I do? Took him out last night with my buddies, partied hard, and urged him to make good on a poker bet with my friends? And now he’s handling our dirty laundry with grace.
I want to thank him but all I can manage is: “Thanks for the sandwich.”
“Pretty sure my hangover is gone,” he says, but his voice sounds different than it did yesterday. More distant.
The car rolls up to the airport, and we thank the driver as we get out. As he’s wheeling his suitcase to the sliding glass door, Hunter pays the tip on his phone.