‘I’m fine,’ I answer, nervously reaching out to twist the cap off the bottle, then pouring a little of the liquid into my glass. ‘Turns out, I am thirsty after all.’ Bringing the glass to my knee, I cup it in both hands, my fingers dancing nervously against it.
‘Shall we?’ He reaches for the folder, flipping the cover open with the pad of his thumb. ‘I’ve had my lawyer draft a prenuptial agreement, as discussed.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Water sloshes over the side of the glass as I put it down. ‘You had this pulled together already?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t know ...? You couldn’t have known I was going to say yes. I only just decided an hour ago!’
‘Olivia. I earn a lot of money. More money than most people will spend in a lifetime. And I earn that money by using my instincts.’
‘But still—’
‘You’re an intelligent woman. You aren’t one of those people who life happens to. You make life happen for you.’
‘Didn’t we talk about flattery already?’ My words hit the air sharper than I’d intended.
‘Fine. Yes, I had it drawn up without knowing what you’d decide. Given your choices, I made an educated guess, and here you are. Is that okay for you? Does it make you feel a little happier? A little more content?’
‘Not really.’ I shrug. I should’ve left it at the compliment.
We go through the agreement point by point as Beckett explains the legal jargon in layman’s terms. It turns out, he has a law degree, though he suggests I take it to my own counsel for confirmation. I nod rapidly at his suggestion and wonder if I have a couple of hundred free on my credit card. But unless the credit card balance fairies have visited, I’ll be spending a night with my cheap half bottle of wine, a pad and a pen, and Professor Google.
But the bottom line? I walk away from this marriage exactly as he promised; I’ll own E-Volve free and clear, and I’ll have a very healthy bank balance and some investments made on my behalf for the future.
‘So, that concludes the legalities for the minute.’ Cuffing his wrist, Beckett pushes the sleeves of his sweater up his forearm once, then again, highlighting the play of tendons and muscles there.It shouldn’t feel like I’m watching porn, yet it does.As an encore, he pushes back his elbows, stretching the muscles in his shoulders as his sweater moulds to his flat stomach and his pecs. He stands, and suddenly, his crotch is at eye level. Yes, okay, so there’s a coffee table between us, but it doesn’t stop my mind from going back to that night in the car. The smell of leather and cologne. Taut sighs in the tight space. The feel of his hands on my thighs, and the rock-hard bulge between his legs as I’d worked myself over him.
You were wet. I bet you’re wet now.
‘You’re sure I can’t get you anything stronger?’ I’m about to say yes—a bottle of wine and a straw—when he adds, ‘You look like you need a little fortification.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I say, springing to my feet. ‘How dare you! I’m not desperate! Just because you might have copped a feel or two doesn’t mean you can make these assumptions about me.’
By the end of my angry little speech, I’ve watched his expression change and morph through a range of things. So much so I find myself playing the exchange back in my head.
‘Freud.’
‘What about him?’ I answer with far less vinegar than moments before.
‘I think we’ll just blame this one on him,’ he says, turning back to the concealed fridge. ‘I expect you’re ready for a wine now. Pinot Grigio?’ he asks, already walking away. Walking away with his shoulders shaking.
‘OhhhLord.’ I drop to my butt on the sofa once again, my face in my hands, my hands on my knees. ‘Fortification, not fornication.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ I hear him place the glass down in front of me. ‘If fornication is to take place, we’d best sync our diaries quickly.’
My head comes up so quick, my hair knots around my face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Fornication is out of wedlock, and we’ll be married this week.’
I snort. Actually snort. ‘This is my first time, but I’m pretty sure it takes more than a few days to arrange a wedding, no matter how secretive.’
‘We’re not getting married in secret. We might elope, but I need people to know.’
‘That’s what I meant.Sheesh.But aren’t there legalities we have to abide by? When Miranda’s older sister got married in Sussex, there was bands or something to post.’
‘Banns,’ he corrects. ‘Yes, these have to be read out in church three weeks in a row. In advance of objections.’
I wonder if a bride objects if she still keeps her company. Maybe just in a daydream world.
