Page 49
His gaze narrows. “Ominous.”
“What is?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you sit still for weeks. You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies. Spit it the fuck out, whatever it is.”
“I need you to draft me a prenup.”
“Quit fucking around. What do you really want?”
“For you. To draft. Me. A prenup.”
His mouth opens. Then closes. He turns his head and glances out of the window, then back again. “Troy? Blink once if you’re in danger.”
“How about once if I am and twice for I’m really getting hitched?” A double blink. I really am getting hitched. For at least six months.
“Have you impregnated one of your supermodels?” Do I detect a note of panic in Max’s voice? Unusual.
“Yeah.” I glance over my shoulder. “Her daddy is at the door with his shotgun.”
“Do me a favor? Smile for me.” I flash him my teeth instead. “Lift your arms.”
With a protracted sigh, I make chicken wings. “Can’t smell burning toast neither,” I add heavily. “Are you gonna help me, or do I need to find outside counsel?”
“Yeah, you need a family attorney. Preferably someone who specializes in matrimony and prenups. But, fuck, you are commitment averse—the least marriage-minded person I know. Well, excluding me. And maybe Hannah.”
“Not Hugh?”
“Nah, he’s just dying for the whole white picket fence. He just has to date a woman long enough for her to propose.” He gives a pause as he studies me. “Really?”
“Really. Tomorrow. No invitations, no party. It’s a courthouse thing.”
“Nah.” He presses both palms to his desk. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I am not.” Even if I wish I were.
“Wait.” He suddenly straightens, and my gut tenses in reflex. “This is about her, isn’t it? The girl.”
“It is about a girl. How long have we known each other? It can’t be that much of a surprise to you that I’m into vaginas.”
“It’s the one Hannah was talking about.”
“Hannah was talking about a vagina?”
“The woman from the party, from the past.”
“Hannah doesn’t know shit,” I mutter.
“Oh, she knows. And she remembers. Everything.”
“Whatever the fuck that means.”
“So Page Six got it right.” Like a dog with a scent, he goes down the wrong hole. “Unless Page Six also got it wrong.” The dog backtracks. Self-corrects.
“I hope you don’t have dreams of joining New York’s finest because that is some terrible detective work.” My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Clara, and I try to ignore what a head fuck it is, seeing her name flash up on the screen. I type out a quick answer. “Whatever Page Six got right or wrong isn’t worth shit,” I add. “And I’d prefer to keep the prenup in house. No outside counsel.”
“Sorry, I was wrong. That was the statement that’s ominous. What was her name again?”
“So maybe Hannah doesn’t know everything.”
