The Divorce Attorney Read online

  By

  Melanie Munton

  The Divorce Attorney

  Copyright © 2020 Melanie Munton

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations

  www.mayhemcovercreations.com

  eBook Edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then it was pirated illegally, and you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  1 – The Counselor and the Corset

  2 – The Proposition

  3 – The Suckling Pig

  4 – The Hot Pursuit

  5 – The Dessert Conundrum

  6 – The Teacher’s Pet

  7 – The Non-Wishing Fountain

  8 – The House of the White Rose

  9 – The Play-Doh Pop Massacre

  10 – The Pink Champagne Epiphany

  11 – The Golf Cart Chase

  12 – The Maintenance Shed

  13 – The Squirter

  14 – The Green Chaise

  15 – The Bigfoot with the Lime

  16 – The Rice Hope Plantation

  17 – The Bench Bump and Grind

  18 – The Storybook Quandary

  19 – The Road House Effect

  20 – The Huckleberry Pie Confession

  21 – The Ugly Truth

  22 – The Folly Foursome

  23 – The Melted Chocolate Bombshell

  24 – The Confrontation

  25 – The Moving Weekend

  26 – The Caretaker’s Friend

  Epilogue – The Perfectly Messy Ending

  Sneak Peek of The Six Month Lease

  Also by Melanie Munton

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Melanie Munton:

  Brooklyn Brothers:

  Lace & Lies

  Scars & Sins

  Sultry Nights:

  Salsa (Sultry Nights 1)

  Tango (Sultry Nights 2)

  Rumba (Sultry Nights 3)

  Samba (Sultry Nights 4)

  Mambo (Sultry Nights 5)

  Standalone romance:

  King of the Court

  The Unforgettable Kind

  Slow Seductions series:

  Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)

  Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)

  Cruz Brothers series:

  Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)

  The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)

  Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)

  Timid Souls novellas:

  Stubborn Hearts

  Unexpected Love

  Possession and Politics Trilogy:

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  I show up to my own divorce dressed like a tavern wench.

  Because looking like a raging moron has apparently become my new thing in life. My new brand.

  (Insert pitying snicker here).

  And as sad as it is to admit, walking into the Van Gordon & Associates law firm office while wearing an obscenely tight corset that makes my boobs bulge to an almost lewd degree barely even scratches the surface of my firmly established stupidity. I can barely stuff my dignity into this dress, let alone actual body parts.

  Just when I think I can sink no lower…

  My heavy messenger bag smacks against my leg as I amble up to the front desk in the lobby. The grandmotherly-type woman sitting behind the desk with a pair of half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose looks up from her computer as I approach. She spares my outfit one disapproving glance, punctuating it with a haughty sniff.

  Yeah, whatever, lady.

  She can’t be thinking anything worse than what I’ve already thought myself.

  “Hi,” I say, suffusing polite cheeriness into my voice, despite her judgmental frown. “I’m Sloane Westbrook. I have an appointment with Tamra Duprey.”

  The unimpressed woman returns her stoic gaze to her computer screen. “Ms. Duprey is currently out on maternity leave. Your case is being passed on to another attorney.”

  Whoa, whoa. Hold the phone.

  My mind mentally slams on the brakes so hard the airbags deploy.

  “Pardon?” The woman looks like she knows what she’s doing behind that desk, but this bulldog must have misplaced her bone. “Ms. Duprey told me she wasn’t going on maternity leave for another month.”

  The bulldog swings her attention back to me, sighing impatiently. “Her labor started very unexpectedly. It was a premature birth. But Mr. Van Gordon has spoken with Ms. Duprey about your case. He has all of your files, so he’ll be well-versed on the particulars of your proceedings.”

  “Mr. Van Gordon?” I ask cautiously. “As in, one of the partners?”

  As in, the guy whose name is stamped on your letterhead?

  The corners of her eyes crinkle almost condescendingly—and there’s The Look.

  The one I’m so sick of seeing. The one the older generations tend to give to a millennial like me when they think I’m fulfilling some kind of stereotype of being a too-young-for-life, clueless, entitled dingbat.

  Maybe she’s right in this one case, except for the entitled part. But it makes it no less grating on my pride.

  “He’s your new divorce attorney, dear. Carter Van Gordon. He’s highly respected and very good at what he does.”

  I bite my lip, worried I’m about to push my luck with this one. “Is that common? Switching attorneys right before the settlement negotiation?”

  This time, her expression says child, please. I’m sure she’s barely restraining the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s not unheard of. His office is the third door on the right down the hallway behind you. You may go on back.”

  Translation: Get out of my face and let the real adults get back to work.

  Because I honestly can’t come up with a good defense for my ignorance, nor for my outfit—and because yes, I’m a little scared of this consternating woman—I follow her directions down the hallway. Stopping at a frosted glass door with the name “Carter Van Gordon, J.D.” emblazoned in big, intimidating letters, I knock softly.

  “Come in,” comes a muffled voice from inside the room.

  Steeling myself with a measured breath, I push open the door and take two steps inside the room before I stop.

  Hellooo, Counselor.

  The distinguished man sitting behind the cluttered desk is focused on his computer screen, eyes narrowed in concentration behind a pair of black-frame glasses. His face is tan with a five o’clock shadow beginning to sprout, making him appear almost rugged. His dark, honey blond
hair is pushed back off his forehead, dipping in way that indicates the presence of a cowlick.

  But the suspenders… They’re what really do it for me.

  Because they frame a set of wide, sturdy shoulders that would look more appropriate at a CrossFit competition than in a law office. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, which also seem to have impressive definition. His biceps are straining against the shirt’s material, the muscles rippling every time he types something on his keyboard.

  All of that magnificence is wrapped up in a pretty red bow.

  Literally. His red bowtie makes me think of a present dying to be ripped open.

  The look almost doesn’t seem right on him, yet it somehow works at the same time. Probably because a man like this can wear literally anything and will never make a mistake. There are special rules for his kind of man. The fashion faux pau doesn’t exist for him. The laws of nature don’t apply to someone who clearly defies them. On someone my age, his style would be termed as hipster chic or something along those lines.

  But on this man—who is clearly not my age, though I can’t tell by how much—I know instantly that his fashion choice is an authentic reflection of Charleston culture. It’s not meant to be seen as modern and ironic or even fashionable. It’s just an old southern thing.

  And I know that before I hear his deep southern drawl.

  It’s not full-on Charleston where he drops his “r’s.” I’d guess maybe a North Carolina or Virginia accent. Regardless, the sound makes me want to hand-fan myself and flutter my eyelashes like Scarlett O’Hara.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he finally says, shifting his gaze away from the screen and down to a folder in front of him. “Are you Mrs. Westbrook?”

  It takes me a second to find my voice. “Um, yes. I was told that you will now be handling my divorce?”

  “That’s correct. I’m taking over for Tamra while she’s out. But don’t worry, she’s gotten me caught up on where we’re at.”

  He still hasn’t looked at me. His head is down, his attention focused on the documents in front of him as he furiously scribbles notes in the margins of the papers, clearly lost in his thoughts. I’m not sure whether I should feel offended or not. He’s either being purposefully rude, or he’s too preoccupied by his job to realize that he’s actually speaking to another human being.

  I clear my throat, hoping he takes the hint. “Okay. Will this cause any delays with the settlement?”

  He shakes his head, still without looking up. “No, there shouldn’t be any complications. It’s a pretty straightforward case. I spoke with your husband’s attorney, and she doesn’t have any issues with the change.”

  “He’s not my husband,” I snap without meaning to.

  But I don’t want the term applied to that cheating bastard ever again.

  That comment manages to grab his attention.

  My attorney’s head shoots up, his sharp eyes immediately colliding with mine.

  I swallow, unnerved by the depth in those hazel eyes. The keen awareness I see there.

  “I would appreciate it if we could refer to him as Mr. Westbroook,” I add in a much gentler tone. “I’m fine with ‘the ex,’ too. Or even ‘the douchebag.’” Probably didn’t need to tack on that last one. “And I’d like to refrain from using the Mrs. if we could.”

  The corner of his mouth tugs up in amusement. “Of course. My apologies, Ms. Westbrook.”

  I shudder every time I hear that name.

  The problem is…it is my name. At least for another few days, I guess.

  Legally, my name won’t be changed back to my maiden one until the divorce papers go through the courts. I’ll still have to change it on all my IDs and documents, but at least it will be changed back in the legal system. And of course—to add salt to the wound—everything is in my married name. Bank accounts, apartment lease, W-2s, all of my bills, and everything in my student file at the Charleston College graduate school. In summation, I don’t have any money, a reliable vehicle, a respectable credit score, my own apartment, but at least I’ll have my flipping maiden name back.

  I am so winning in life right now.

  So, until all the documentation is officially filed, I am cursed to legally remain Mrs. Grant Westbrook.

  With his gaze finally raised in my direction, my attorney suddenly takes in his new view.

  And drops his pen.

  His Adam’s apple noticeably bobs as his eyes trail down my body. It’s not quite languorous, but it’s not exactly brief either. It happens almost absently—as if he doesn’t even realize how much time his eyes remain glued to my plunging cleavage.

  I know I should feel uncomfortable at being the center of his attention. This so-called “uniform” was tailor-made for one purpose: to turn a lady’s bazongas into a flashing marquee. That’s what customers come to see at The Suckling Pig, a colonial-themed tavern where the female waitresses dress like sultry wenches from the Revolutionary War days. Think Hooters, back when all the men had wooden teeth and drank a pint of ale with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Don’t judge me.

  I need money. Desperately.

  And in a touristy town like Charleston that has a lively downtown scene, working at The Suckling Pig is a surefire way for a well-endowed girl like me to rake in some extra dough.

  But his intent expression as he looks me over does not at all make me uncomfortable. And again, it should. Now that I’ve seen his entire face, I realize this man is probably a good ten years older than me, at least. Not that he looks old, by any means. But the crow’s feet around his eyes and laugh—or frown?—lines around his mouth put him in his mid-to-late thirties.

  I’m twenty-three.

  Yes, yes, and I’m already getting divorced. Make your jokes now, and stow the judgment.

  I quickly scan his left hand but don’t see a wedding band. Which is something. Checking out his apparently younger client isn’t wrong if he’s not married. Right?

  For me, it’s just…different.

  I’ve only ever hung out with guys my age, and I foolishly married one.

  And clearly, that’s my problem.

  Despite the fact that he’s my age, Grant is still too young to handle marriage like a responsible adult. Too inconsiderate to speak up and tell me he doesn’t love me anymore and that we never should have gotten married in the first place. Too much of a coward to admit that he felt pressured into the whole thing by his overbearing father. And of course, he hadn’t been about to share with me how unreliable he is with money. How he tends to piss it all away the second he can get his grimy little hands on it.

  So, instead of communicating with me like a decent human being, he went and buried his relationship woes balls-deep in the barista at our favorite coffee shop.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t learn just how immature Grant really is until well after our marriage license was notarized. Hence, my presence here today.

  Since Grant and I met in college, I haven’t done much venturing outside of my own dating pool age group. For whatever reason, I never really look twice at older men. Even when they hit on me at my job, I just don’t typically give them much thought.

  Yet I’m giving my new attorney plenty of thought right now.

  But it only takes me a second to realize he’s a straight-up Maserati.

  So insanely beautiful to look at, yet completely unattainable to someone like me.

  I mean, why would a successful man like him, who clearly has his life together, ever find a frazzled, scatterbrained, twenty-three-year-old, soon-to-be-divorcee, hot mess of a graduate student attractive?

  Although if I’m not mistaken, the gleam in his hazel eyes is one of…interest.

  With my thick, layered black hair pulled up into a loose knot that shows off my long neck and aforementioned cleavage, sky-blue eyes that I’ve been told are a “mystical” color, narrow waist and hips, and pale Irish skin, I guess I’m not terrible to look at.

  Your boobs are
basically winking at him. He would probably show the same amount of interest to a stripper that motor-boated him during a lap dance.

  No one can put things into perspective quite like my bitch of a conscience, that’s for sure.

  Then I have to go and make things awkward by actually addressing the elephant in the room. “Yeah, sorry about my attire.” I pick at my asymmetrical skirt, trying to cover as much of my legs as possible. “I had to practically sprint here as soon as I got off work.”

  There was a crazy lunch rush today, so I had to stay later to help with the orders. Between that and the fact that my PMS-ing car decided not to start, forcing me to literally run all the way here, I didn’t have time to change.

  A coughing sound comes from the back of his throat as he averts his eyes, seeming to shake himself out of his daze. “No problem. It’s actually not the strangest thing I’ve ever seen in this office.”

  My eyebrow goes up, curiosity piqued. “Care to share?”

  His eyes dart back to mine.

  I shrug. “I could use a laugh right now.”

  His upper lip twitches. He leans back in his chair, tapping his finger on the desk’s surface. “There was this one client who came into the office for her divorce settlement…and brought along a friend for emotional support. One she’d never mentioned before. And one she failed to mention was an animal.” He visibly shudders, staring at the wall behind me. “I just wish I’d known about the peacock before I went to use the facilities. One minute I’m alone in the stall, and the next, I’m face-to-face with the bathroom bird from hell.”

  I stare at him for four straight seconds—

  Then burst into laughter.

  My ribs are probably going to bruise from slamming against the tight-ass corset with my every guffaw, but it’s totally worth it.

  “So, you were ‘peacocked’ in a men’s restroom?” I wipe away tears from the corners of my eyes. “You poor man. How traumatizing that must have been for you.”