My first clueshould’ve been the suit.
I should’ve known what was coming the moment Noah stepped into room nine dressed like he’d been born for the singular and specific purpose of wearing bespoke suits. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding a document folder. His tie was a bit loose, a bit off-center, as if he’d tugged at it on the drive over here.
I had no idea why that made me press my thighs together and I didn’t want to explore it.
At that moment, with him standing in my doorway, I realized there had been a period in Noah’s life when he’d worn suits and carried documents and gave his tie an irritable pull every day.
It was a wonder that New York City was still standing because I wasthis closeto sliding out of my chair.
The best gift, however, came from the items he wasn’t wearing. Without sunglasses or a ball cap to keep his walls high, I could see him. Still, I didn’t know how to read the expression on his face. The pinch of his brows, the flat line of his lips, the dark glint of his eyes. It was a look that could mean anything from exasperated to indifferent to battle-ready.
The marker I was holding fell to the floor.
The marriage was fake. The attraction to my future husband…that was all too real.
He held up a hand in greeting and glanced around at the desks and chairs stacked to the ceiling in one corner, boxes piled in another. It was clear he’d expected a less rustic situation.
“I have time,” I said, more for my benefit than his. “It looks worse than it is.”
He crossed the room toward the horseshoe-shaped table I’d designated as my chaos-free corner. “Why is it,” he started, gesturing with his folder, “like this? Why hasn’t the furniture been set up?”
“I haven’t done it yet.”
“Why areyoudoing it?”
I grabbed the marker off the floor and secured the cap. “That’s what teachers do, Noah. We don’t have first-day-of-school fairies who make everything beautiful and organized.” I pointed at the rolled-up rug perched on the windowsill. “That’s part of the reason I was so frazzled yesterday. I usually work on prepping my room over the course of three weeks, not three days.”
“That, and the pudding cup.”
I dropped back into my chair. “Shut up about the pudding cup.”
He looked around again, tapping the edge of the folder against his palm. When finished with his perusal, he said, “I brought the prenup. I want to go over it before”—he tipped his head toward the door—“we finalize anything.”
I pulled my bag from the chair on the other side of the table. “Let’s do it.”
He studied the chair. It was second-grade-sized. “Seriously?”
“I sit in little kid chairs every day. You’ll survive.”
Another moment of staring passed before he dropped into the chair. His knees were level with the table. Somehow, it did nothing to dampen the power of that suit.
He opened the folder, saying, “This is a standard prenuptial agreement that states both parties will retain the assets and liabilities they bring into the union. Since I’ve requested use of your assets—”
Why did that sound filthy?
“—I’ve added language indicating I’ll fairly compensate you—”
And that. Dirty as hell.
“—though both parties may agree to non-monetary compensation. In other words, we could take it out in trade.”
And that.Definitelythat.
“Prepping your fields, for example,” he continued. “I have no desire to haggle with you over every inch—”
Wow. Right? I wasn’t imagining this.
“—and all goods or services would be subject to your full consent, of course.”
