With a chuckle, Judge Morris says twelve words I’ll remember forever. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Bennett leans in for the kiss and I tilt my head just in time so that he only gets the corner of my lips. But I’m guessing Judge Morris has seen plenty of awkward kisses, because he’s unfazed as he beckons us and Marianne, our witness, to sign the papers that legally bind me to the one person I swore I’d never speak to again.
CHAPTER 1
Clover
SEVENTY-TWO HOURS PRIOR
Three years ago. That was the last time I spoke to Bennett Andrew Graves.
I’m on my lunch break during one of my last shifts at Driftwood Diner. I’ve hardly eaten since cooking up this ludicrous plan, but I ordered a cup of chowder because for some delusional reason I think it makes me look less desperate.
Marianne delivers my cup with an encouraging smile and I resign myself to nibbling on oyster crackers because I feel like I could puke.
I rehearse the speech in my head again, and it takes shape, building logic and reason where there is none.
The air leaves my lungs as the wind chimes above the door jingle softly.
He wears a loose V-necked sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and the front French tucked into dark tan chinos that are rolled at the cuff in a near haphazard way that feels like the type of carefree look only money can buy.
His black Adidas Sambas are a change from the Italian loafers he wore to school most days at Calvin Prep. At least that’s what he wore before Mom removed me from the most elite private school on the coast because my tuition was one of the many benefits we lost when Bennett’s mother fired mine. Public school, however, was the exact right price at free ninety-nine.
Bennett points toward me when Marianne, my beloved work wife and single mother to a nine-year-old girl named Penelope and a high-needs Chihuahua, tries to seat him. She gives him a dizzy smile the moment he flashes his dimples. Marianne’s an easy target, but they are also objectively very good dimples.
He slides into the booth across from me, and without even looking up to greet me or take off his sunglasses, he peruses the menu until Marianne approaches with her pen and pad. Before he looks up, she gives me a wink. She has been the firsthand witness to my sheer panic over the last few weeks and is the only person who knows about my potential solution.
“Tuna and chips,” he tells her, and I’m not prepared for how his voice has deepened in the years since I’ve seen him. “Extra tartar sauce. And some of that banana pie.” He blesses her with his dimples again and she pockets her notebook without writing down his order because Marianne never writes down orders. The notepad is just there for emotional support—more for diners than for herself.
“You got it,” she says, and makes a show of reaching across the table, her breasts hanging between us like two (admittedly very nice) buoys. She looks down at me, her head facing away from Bennett, and mouthshot.
Bennett removes his matte black aviator Ray-Bans and places them on the table next to his key fob. He studies me with what seems like amusement, the blue of his eyes piercing and intrigued. The onlysign that he is even the least bit anxious is the brief twitch along the sharp line of his stubbled jaw.
“Clover Rowan Walsh,” he finally says.
“Bennett.”
“Come on now.” There are those fucking dimples again. “You’ve got me burning with curiosity.”
“Is that all it took for you to remember that I exist? A bit of curiosity? How simple of you, Bennett. Did you get permission from Mommy to come out and play today?”
At the mention of his mother, he briefly grimaces.
I take a deep breath, filling my diaphragm. I hate this. I hate the fact that I have to even talk to him again, let alone ask him for something.
“I got an academic scholarship at Wexley.”
His eyes widen slightly, but his features remain, otherwise, neutral. “Congratulations, Clover.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and crinkle the plastic of my cracker package between my fingers. “I got a full ride.” I was nine years old the first time I visited Wexley and since then I have never been able to imagine a future for myself that didn’t involve that lush, bluff-side campus crawling with fog that always seemed to look right at home amid the late-1800s Gothic architecture.
“Your mom must be proud. How is she?” he asks, his voice teetering on genuine before he clears his throat. “So, I guess you wanted to meet up and split custody of the campus.”
I don’t look up, because I know that if he’s nice to me—hell, even just cordial—I’ll warm back up to him, and if I warm up to him, I’ll fall for his charm. Bennett’s charisma is powerful but rationed, and when he rewards you with it, it feels like the sun.
“No, actually, the family who finances my housing scholarshippulled funding after one of their grandkids was put on academic probation.”
“That’s shitty. I bet the kid’s a prick.” He cards a hand through his chestnut waves. “But aren’t first-years required to live on campus?”
