I clear my throat. “I’ve brought a copy of the contract, if you want to review it before the final meeting with the lawyers.”
“I’ve already read it,” she says simply. “I have my own conditions to add before I sign, if that’s alright?”
My brows raise. That’s a pleasant surprise—not just that she read the contract, but that she has changes. She has the right to ask for something for herself. I only hope it’s nothing sentimental.
“By all means,” I say, waving my hand.
“Right now, I work from my art studio at home. I’d like to continue that. I want a dedicated space in our home for me to paint in.”
She paints—that explains the stain I saw on her hands when she removed her gloves. It’s an easy enough request. My apartment is the largest in the building, a two-story penthouse.
“I’ll have a space cleared for you. I just ask that any paint-related mess stay inside the studio.”
Her lips quirk in a smile. “Neat freak, huh?”
“A bit.”
She looks down and takes a breath. “I’d also like to ask that you don’t sleep with anyone else while we’re married. Whether or not it’s real, I want exclusivity.”
“That won’t be a problem.” I already planned on that, even though I’ve never felt the need for monogamy. The issue is that if I slept with another woman, it’d be too easy for her or them to sell the story to a reporter.
I remember how crazy the press was around my parents. They were tabloid catnip—the glamorous actress and the wealthy, suave entertainment scion.
Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever have what they had. Not the fame or the money—I've got plenty of both—but the way they looked at each other. Like they'd found exactly where they belonged.
I remember being a kid, bored at some gala, and coming back to find my parents slow-dancing in a corner even though there was no music playing. My mother laughed and said, “We make our own music, sweetheart.”
I didn't understand it then. I'm not sure I understand it now. But I think about it more often than I'd admit.
The magazines never talked about that part, though.
Even though every other detail of their life seemed to end up emblazoned in the headlines, from their extravagant vacations to their small, ordinary arguments. Once, when they disagreed about whether to buy me a new bike I wanted at a toy store, the press turned it into an all-out battle over whether Mom was spoiling me rotten. The paparazzi photos managed to make something innocent look nasty.
If the press could do that with an argument, they’d have a field day if they found out I cheated on my wife. I know how disappointed my parents would be if I humiliated Maura that way.
She tilts her head, looking at me skeptically. “You sure exclusivity will be that easy?”
I nod tightly.
“It’s just…I don’t know how easy it’ll be for you. I’ve read about your…appetites.”
“You read aboutwhat?” I echo.
“The article in the Toronto Tea.” Her cheeks flush slightly. “The one that said a woman who spent the weekend with you had to be sent to the ER for dehydration. And that threesome you had with those two actresses?”
I resist rolling my eyes. Reading that trash gossip blog is the first red flag I’ve seen from Maura. “Don’t believe everything you read. Icanpromise you exclusivity, Maura.”
Granted, it’ll be challenging to limit sex to one week a month, purely for conception, as specified in the contract. I expect I’ll be spending a lot of time with my own hand in the shower.
It’ll be worth it to grow the company to new heights.
“Okay.” Maura looks down again. “There’s just one more thing…”
She trails off, and for a moment we sit in silence. A bartender mixes a pitcher of bloody marys at the bar. A loud, chattering family walks through the lobby, the mother fussing with her children’s coats.
“Tell me,” I urge her, finally. “Nothing you want is wrong, Maura—just negotiable.”
She looks back at me, her gaze full of resolve.
