Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 97(@300wpm)
Luna stands off by herself, perfectly still. I glance over to her soon-to-be husband, who is tapping away on his phone. Why aren’t they talking, and why is he even here? To help pick out the wedding dress? Is he that controlling? Why would he conduct a prenuptial agreement here, of all places?
“You okay?” I ask Luna.
“Oh, yes.” She gives me a soft smile.
“Luna—”
“Julie left.” She is quick to stop whatever I’m about to say. I get the message. I will let it go for now. There are too many other people around.
“It’s bullshit, and you know it.” Frankie squares off with Dylan. Here we go. “She’s not a breeding mule that can be tossed away.”
“Shit.” I wince at that. “Give me.” I hold my hand out. Frankie hands it over to me.
“Guys, it’s okay.” Luna tries to calm Frankie down. I’m going to need some of that calm too, because the more I read over the prenup, the angrier I get. Dylan might not be as charming as I thought.
“Luna knows that she’s not bringing anything into the marriage. It’s my legacy that is at risk.” At least Dylan drops his head a fraction, shaking it at Michael's words.
“You—”
“Okay, now.” I grab Frankie by the arm before she can rip Michael’s head off. “Not here,” I say next to Frankie’s ear while shooting my own glare at the two men who had the audacity to come up with this bullshit.
Because that’s what this all is. Bullshit.
Chapter Nine
DYLAN
My watch says it’s almost seven, which means happy hour is nearing its end. I double-check that the car I’m watching is still in its parked position since I can’t see Nat from the bar’s windows. Yes, I’m officially a stalker, but after the fiasco at the wedding dress store, I figured I wouldn’t be welcome at the table inside.
Kaden had called me earlier, asking if we were going to happy hour. I explained to him what happened, and after he was done cursing me out, he said he’d find a way to meet up with Frankie on his own. And he said that he was going to pretend we weren’t friends so it would help his cause. Whatever works for you, man, I’d replied.
My feelings aren’t hurt because I know I’m the bad guy in this scenario. Or, if not the bad guy, then the lawyerly henchman trying to help the bad guy. But this lawyer is having second thoughts about what side he’s on and is trying to go down a different path. Maybe it’s one that seems shiftless and lazy, but making hats and blankets for preemies in the hospital seems to a better use of my time than writing prenuptial agreements that dole out money based on how many kids a wife can pop out.
The bar door swings open, and I straighten up, only to slide back down when it’s three men who exit. These girls need to go to an all women’s bar because those men look like the kind that would ask you what song you were listening to while you were wearing headphones. Irritating jackasses.
I have Natalie’s work phone number. I could have called that, but stalking a girl’s workplace felt more wrong than happening to be on the same public street at the same time she is. It’s a pedantic detail, but what are lawyers if not lovers of pedantic details? Finding small discrepancies in hundred page contracts is what we are paid to do.
The door opens again, and this time it’s Natalie, Frankie, and Luna. I get out of my car and wait for traffic to pass before crossing the street. By the time Natalie and Frankie are at their car, Luna has been whisked away by a Montclair car. The prenuptial agreement hasn’t put her off marriage, just as Michael predicted.
Natalie catches a glimpse of me, but I can tell by the way she leans forward that she doesn’t quite trust her eyesight in the dim light.
I raise my big paw in the air. “Hey, Natalie.”
Frankie scowls. “I thought you said you weren’t stalking us.”
“I wasn’t before, but tonight I am.”
“Stalking can get you disbarred.”
“I think only a reprimand, but since I’m closing my law practice, disbarment isn’t much of a threat.” I turn to Natalie, who hasn’t said anything yet. “You eat too much shrimp at happy hour or can I take you out for dinner?”
“I have a phone,” she says.
“Sure, but that’s work and your personal space, and this is a public street, and somehow that argument worked better in my head than saying it out loud.” I pluck my phone out of my pocket. “Let’s exchange numbers so that I don’t have to hang outside of bars in the hopes that I can find you on the street.”
Frankie clucks her tongue, but after hesitating a moment, Natalie pulls her own phone out of her purse. “This may be a bad idea, but at least Frankie knows what you look like in case I show up in a body bag.”