He slowly shakes his head, his eyes wide. “You have no idea. It haunts me. I avoid public restrooms at all costs these days.”
“That’s understandable. I mean, you never can be too careful with those pervert birds.”
He nods. “I won’t get cornered again. I carry a rape whistle with me everywhere I go now.”
“You know, you should probably look into taking some self-defense classes,” I suggest. “I hear that Toucan Sam is teaching some down at the community center.”
He waves me off. “Nah, I’ve already got it covered. Woody Woodpecker is going to give me some private training lessons.”
That brings another round of laughter from me.
It’s refreshing to laugh at someone other than myself and the mess I’ve made of my life for a change.
“Thanks,” I eventually say after catching my breath.
His gaze remains locked on me for several long, assessing moments, as if I’m an animal at the zoo. I find myself squirming in my chair at his silent scrutiny. When I almost can’t take it anymore, he responds with a curt nod.
Funny how I don’t even need to explain what I’m thanking him for. He seems to automatically know.
He glances down at his watch. “We’ve got a few minutes before the proceedings. You want to go over some details and get through any questions you might have?”
My mood sobers.
Back to giving my joke of a marriage the ax.
“Sure.”
So, that’s the story of how I meet my drop-dead gorgeous divorce attorney dressed like a lusty tavern wench.
And intriguingly…he doesn’t seem to mind it.
I walk into the law office’s conference room—chin up, boobs out.
Might as well lean into it.
I might be dressed like an eighteenth-century ho, but the steel barrier around my pride and willpower is impenetrable in this moment when I have to face down my philandering soon-to-be-ex, hopefully for the very last time.
The fact that Grant’s eyes bug out of his skull when they lower to my protruding chest shoots me up with an extra dose of confidence that’s laced with sweet satisfaction. I didn’t start working at The Suckling Pig until after I moved out of our apartment, so he’s never seen this get-up.
Last looks, buddy. You’ll never see these babies again.
“Only a truly spectacular jackass would bring a date to his own divorce.” My snide remark thickens the tension in the room.
Grant’s face turns bright red, but his mouth remains tightly shut.
His attorney—a Ms. Pritchard—shuffles papers around on the table, clearly not wanting to make eye contact with me. “My client brought an acquaintance for moral support.”
The gum-smacking blonde gal sitting out in the lobby who’s even bustier than I am? Although she’s obviously silicone and I’m au naturel.
Acquaintance, my ass.
And she’s not even the one I caught him in bed with.
I scrunch my face up at her in an oh, you poor thing look. “I’m sorry, you must have misunderstood him. I believe your client meant oral support.”
From the chair next to mine, Van Gordon has to cough into his fist to disguise his laughter.
When Grant’s face turns an even darker shade of crimson as his frown contorts into a glare, my mouth spreads into a saccharine smile.
It’s funny how perspective can open your eyes up to a whole new world. Like how I once thought Grant was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Yet now as I look at him, all I see is an insecure wimp who uses more product in his hair than I do, all to get it to do that floppy thing in the front that he wants people to think is natural.
But everything about him is manufactured.
His entire persona is a by-product of being born and raised into a steaming pollutant factory of social upbringing, whose sole purpose is to produce the next generation of southern Kennedys.
“Let’s keep these proceedings civil, if you please,” Ms. Pritchard admonishes, addressing me specifically.
“Oh, I’ve been nothing but civil. Haven’t I, honey?” I croon at the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. “Even when I caught you in bed with the barista, I didn’t make a big fuss, did I? I mean, I felt sorry for the poor woman. After all, I know exactly how disappointing sleeping with you is.”
Grant surges forward in his chair, his standard litany of insults poised on the tip of his tongue. “You fucking bit—”
“I’d advise you not finish that sentence, Mr. Westbrook,” Van Gordon bites out, his voice cracking like a whip.
I get shivers.
His rumbling timbre is so…commanding.
“I don’t tolerate name-calling during proceedings,” he says sternly. “Whether or not you treated Ms. Westbrook with respect during the course of your marriage is none of my concern. But you will treat her with respect while you’re in this room.”
Is that his southern upbringing peeking out, coming to the lady’s defense? Or am I hearing some underlying tone there. Almost like…jealousy?
I inwardly scoff. Impossible.
I really have to break this stupidity streak I have going.
“And I would advise the same to your client,” Ms. Pritchard says pointedly to Van Gordon. “Not to mention, due to the serious lack of foundation regarding these accusations of infidelity by my client—”
“Lack of foundation?” Van Gordon snaps. “My client personally witnessed Mr. Westbrook’s infidelity—”
“Alleged infidelity,” she retorts, “which she has no physical proof of.”
I snap my fingers, glancing over at my attorney. “I knew I should have taken pictures.”
He starts to grin, his eyes softening in the corners. “Lesson learned, huh?”
“The prenup does not become invalidated based on allegations of infidelity,” Ms. Pritchard adds. “You of all people know that, Van Gordon.”
His head jerks in her direction. Seeming both shocked and outraged, he leans forward in his chair, glowering at the woman. Judging by his seething expression, something tells me that her comment struck a personal chord with him. Like she crossed some sort of line.
That settles it. In my mind, she will henceforth be known as Ms. Bitchard.
“First and only warning,” he grates out.
Ooooo. More shivers.
His voice is all kinds of dangerous and foreboding. His whole demeanor speaks of so many layers to his personality that are just waiting to be peeled off. Same goes for his clothes.
God, my inner voice is such a ho.
Ms. Bitchard shifts her gaze back to the folders on the table, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Let’s get started.”
And thus begins the longest two hours of my life.
With every clause of the prenup and divorce settlement we cover, the minutes I have to remain in Grant’s presence drone miserably on.
I can feel Van Gordon’s eyes drift to me every now and then, drilling into the side of my head, but I can’t look at him. I put on a good front, but it’s still humiliating to admit that I caught my husband cheating on me in our own apartment, in our own bed. It’s pretty messed up when the language of the prenup that his father had written up—because Daddy Westbrook is highly motivated to protect the family assets—basically says that Grant could do pretty much whatever he wanted during the marriage, and the prenup would still remain valid.
In other words, he could be the biggest slut in South Carolina and stick his dick into however many random holes he wanted and I’d still get nothing in the end. But I walked into this room knowing that already. Any money coming from the Westbrooks would feel tainted anyway.
I’m just done with this whole thing. I want the divorce to be over. I want Grant and his family out of my life. That’s the bottom line. I’m not contesting any division of marital property because frankly, we don’t have much. It all belongs to his father.
I just want it over.
Van Gordon wa
s right—our case is pretty straightforward. Yes, we signed a prenup, and Grant’s father ensured it was ironclad long before we ever said our vows.
Oh, fun fact. I didn’t find out that my soon-to-be-ex-husband came from money until I was literally signing that prenup.
That should have been my first clue that he was a lying piece of shit.
But instead, I’d swooned and said aw, he doesn’t want to be defined by his family’s wealth, brushed it off, and married him anyway.
At the time, Grant admitted that he was afraid I’d only want him for his family’s money if I’d known from the beginning. Said he’d had gold-digging women chasing after his father’s bank account ever since he was in high school. But he wanted a “real relationship” with someone who would love him for him.
My young, naïve heart had just melted hearing that.
I only realized later he knew the exact words to feed me because I’d made it very clear from day one that I would never marry for money.
Ev-er.
My mother did that as a clueless eighteen-year-old with dollar signs in her eyes. She intentionally got knocked up by my rich father five minutes after the ceremony because she thought that was the best way of securing her future.
And me, well…
Although I wasn’t motivated by money, I was still dumb enough to marry my college boyfriend of two years at twenty-one years old. Then I delayed grad school for a year to get a job and help Grant pay off his credit card debt—debt he accrued before we ever got married—that his father refused to touch. So that we would have decent enough credit to maybe buy a house one day.
I delayed my education—my future—for that jackass.
Yeah, that happened.
But I digress.
As the saying goes, money sure hasn’t bought happiness for my mama. My parents divorced when I was three, allowing my mother to move on to the next dollar sign with a penis because she obviously didn’t learn her lesson the first time around.
What can I say, I don’t come from the most intelligent of female stock.
My father, however, is an entirely different matter. For whatever reason, he actually loved my mother. He tried marriage again when I was seven but got bamboozled for a second time. That wife, Cynthia, was even trickier than my mom and actually made the marriage last five whole years before Daddy wised up.
Everything changed when I was fourteen.
That’s when Daddy’s business went under and he lost everything.
We weren’t completely destitute, he and I, but it became a paycheck-to-paycheck existence almost overnight. Pinching pennies, cutting coupons, budgeting every month down to the cent.
And you know, I’m honestly grateful for that.
No, that’s not bullshit.
The experience taught me how to survive on my own. I went from a privileged living to a humble one, and I think I came out all the better for it.
Daddy, though… Again, that’s another matter.
It was tough for a long time. I’d never seen him so down on himself, so devastated. He’d felt responsible for bringing one greedy woman into our lives after another. Whatever happened with his business going under—he never told me the specifics and I didn’t ask—he’d acted as if it was a result of his poor choices in women. Like his disaster relationships had caused his downfall. That led to him drinking, which led to alcoholism, which led to AA, which eventually led to sobriety.
Those were rough years.
He’d had to start from scratch financially while slowly working his way through severe depression. Thankfully, he’d finally gotten back on his feet and met a woman last year who actually does really love him. Rachelle didn’t chase him for his money because quite frankly, Daddy doesn’t have any. At least, not any extra to spare. The income from his new window business is decent but meager.
You might ask yourself, how then can someone who has seen the nitty gritty side of marrying for money find herself in the inverted situation? Why did she hitch her wagon to a yuppie asshole?
Because. I am. A. MORON.
I figure I better divorce the schmuck before I wind up like that woman from the 90s who chopped off her own husband’s dong in bed. I’ve already fantasized about doing it, so a quickie divorce is the safest option for everyone.
I’m zoning out when something I hear pricks my ears. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that last part?” I ask Ms. Bitchard.
“My client is requesting that the remaining balance on the couple’s credit card be paid off by Mrs. Westbrook, due to the nature of said purchases,” she states matter-of-factly, lifting her eyes to mine.
My eyes launch poisonous darts at the bastard. “Are you fucking kidding me, Grant?”
Van Gordon leans toward me, probably to talk me down, but I ignore him.
“I pushed back grad school to help you pay these off. It’s not my fault you were stupid enough to continue racking up debt.”
The contempt on his face makes it look so ugly, I can’t begin to fathom what compelled me to marry this dickhole in the first place.
“I bought you a brand-new bedroom set, Sloane,” he says through clenched teeth. “I was providing for my wife.”
I laugh until I’m close to tears. “Yeah, you provided me with a bedroom set that I never asked for in order to make up for blowing two grand at a strip club in one night. And you paid for the set with a credit card you opened up in my name. Which constitutes fraud, asshole. Yet you’re trying to saddle me with that bill, too? I don’t think so.”
I even tried to report the fraud, but I’ve learned that becomes an extremely gray area when the people involved are married to each other.
“Mr. Westbrook is heir to a twenty-million-dollar fortune,” Van Gordon speaks up in a harsh voice. “My client—”
“Any future inheritance has no bearing on these negotiations—”
“My client will not be forced to pay off his nine-thousand-dollar credit card bill.”
I throw a smirk at Grant. “Especially since the statements will reflect that the bulk of those charges were made at strip clubs and casinos all over the damn state. No wonder you opened cards in my name.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Didn’t want Westbrook Sr. getting wind of your spoiled, whorish ways. Can’t get cut out of that will, now can we?”
I know he can read between the lines of what I’m saying.
I don’t want to drag anything out in court. But so help me God, if he even tries to force me to pay for anymore of his dumbass spending sprees, I will make sure every single one of his credit card statements is delivered to Daddy Westbrook on a silver fucking platter.
Part of me is concerned about these bills technically being in my name, which could seriously screw me in a big way if Grant doesn’t pay them off. But I also know he’s too afraid of pissing his father off to not pay them.
Grant’s eyes briefly flick down to my chest. “Yeah, I’m the whore. Because I’m the one flashing my tits—”
“That’s enough,” Van Gordon’s voice booms. “Watch your mouth, Mr. Westbrook, or you will be removed from this room.”
The debate over the credit card bills continues heatedly until Van Gordon eventually throws down the hammer by basically saying my client won’t pay a single goddamn cent because it’s fucking ridiculous, so shut the hell up.
And that’s that.
It’s obvious Ms. Bitchard isn’t about to challenge him.
I think we all know who would win that battle.
Van Gordon is the authority in this room. The power he silently exudes is palpable.
And I’m suddenly grateful for Tamra’s premature labor.
I walk out of that conference room as someone’s ex-wife.
And as far as I’m concerned, that makes me a brand-new woman.
I follow Van Gordon back to his office to sign a few final documents. After that, according to him, I’ll be free and clear of any further legal obligations regarding my divorce. Then it’s in the han
ds of the court.
Praise the good Lord above.
“Thank you for all of your help, Mr. Van Gordon,” I say as I shove everything into my overloaded messenger bag. “I appreciate you stepping in at the last minute.”
When I glance up at him, he’s staring at the wall behind me, as if mulling something over. “You don’t have to thank me. When I do my job, I aim to do it well.”
Then it seems we have at least one thing in common.
I sling the bag’s strap over my shoulder and hold out my hand. “Well, um, it was nice to meet you. And good luck with…everything.”
I inwardly cringe at how lame that sounds. But what else do you say in this situation? Thanks for helping me drop a hundred and eighty pounds of extra weight? You’ve changed my life?
Seriously, though…best diet I’ve ever gone on.
His much larger hand clasps mine. I feel something flutter around in my chest as his tan fingers wrap around my pale ones and squeeze. Those fascinating hazel eyes pierce through me, his silent scrutiny making me feel on display once again.
“You as well.”
His voice sounds odd, like he’s still lost in his thoughts.
Probably already thinking about his next case. I’ll do him a favor and get out of his hair.
“All right. Well, goodbye.”
He acts almost reluctant to release my hand and still holds onto it longer than is considered appropriate. Shaking off my nerves, I turn for the door and pull it open. I can’t decide if I should look back and smile or wave as I step over the threshold. I settle on dumbly standing there, watching the door slowly fall shut—
His hand suddenly darts out, his fingers curling around the glass to stop it from closing.
When he yanks it back open, his body fills the entire doorway. I have to crane my neck just to meet his eyes because he’s so close. I mean, I’m okay to have a conversation with his stacked pecs, but it might get a tad awkward for him.
He holds his hand up in front of my face, a white business card clutched between his index and middle finger. “That prick was clearly no match for a woman like you,” he says in a low, rumbling voice. “With everything you’ve got going on, it takes someone who knows what the hell he’s doing to understand what you need. So, if you want to know what it feels like to be handled by a real man, give me a call. I promise I won’t disappoint you. And the name’s Carter, by the way.”
The Divorce Attorney Page 2