The Divorce Attorney Read online

  He grins as my eyes dart up and down the sidewalk. These places have got to be secured to the hilt. I wouldn’t be surprised if men in black suits suddenly vault over that fence and arrest us. I’m actually shocked the fence itself isn’t electrified.

  He holds the white rose out to me. “I actually know the owner. Trust me, she won’t mind.”

  Hesitantly, I reach out and take the rose. Of course, it’s in full bloom and gorgeous. But what does he mean by knowing the owner?

  “Have you done some legal work for her or something?” I ask cautiously.

  He shakes his head. “No, not really.”

  Realization dawns, and my shoulders slump. “Oh, gotcha.”

  The fact that it’s a her, he seems familiar with her, and Carter is a beautiful, unattached man, it’s not hard to piece that puzzle together. And clearly, this her is filthy stinking rich to be living in a mansion like this.

  It takes him a second before he seems to understand my reaction. His eyes widen, and he bursts into laughter. “No, darlin’. I’m not familiar with her like that. Not at all.”

  “Oh.”

  He’s so damn charming when he smiles like that.

  And that’s when I realize what he’s doing: he’s romancing me.

  Which is exactly what my relationship with Grant lacked, among a slew of other things. We met in college, for Pete’s sake, so it wasn’t as if we had this grand, adventurous love affair. Whatever money we had was spent on going out to cheap dinners and the occasional movie. I’m not a high maintenance girl anyway, so I never demanded much from him in the way of romantic gestures.

  I really don’t require a lot to be happy. Just a man I love who loves me back and treats me well. That’s it.

  Why does that seem to be such a novelty these days?

  To be honest, I used to think romance was a little overrated. Guys can be a jerk or screw up in some fashion and then use a romantic gift or dinner to wipe the slate clean. At least, that’s always been my experience.

  The idea of romance—the core root of it—has been lost over time, especially among my generation.

  These days, most of what you see is like a cheap imitation of it. A knock off.

  Maybe I just have higher standards, or maybe I’m being plain cynical. But romance should be genuine, authentic, and at times, spontaneous. It should be instinctual, not practiced, and require at least minimal effort.

  With Grant, it merely became a tactic. An angle and sometimes, a smoke screen. Thanks to him, I fear I’ve become hardened to “romance.” And I don’t want to be that jaded, bitter person.

  But Carter is honest to God sweeping me off my feet.

  I bring the rose to my nose and sniff its sweet fragrance. This single white rose is a thousand times better than an expensive bouquet of velvety red blooms could ever be.

  “Thank you.”

  It’s an insufficient word for what I’m feeling right now, but I can’t exactly share all of those emotions with him. He’ll think he’s snagged himself a besotted child with fanciful, girlish notions of wistful romance and marriage.

  Realistically, that is what he has on his hands.

  But he doesn’t need to know that.

  Besides, if he doesn’t want me crushing hard on him, he shouldn’t be so damn irresistible. And he should keep his roses to himself. As it is, I’m holding onto this one for the rest of my days.

  “You’re welcome.”

  It’s beyond difficult to peel my feet off this section of sidewalk because something amazing just happened here. But I mimic his movements when he does just that.

  We don’t get far.

  We stop right in front of the adjacent wrought iron fence where he pulls a set of silver keys from his pocket.

  “You want to come inside?”

  My brows knit together as my eyes take in the monstrous mansion. “Inside where? Here?”

  He nods.

  “Uh, it’s a private residence, Carter.”

  He laughs, making my rising unease intensify rapidly. “I know. It’s my private residence.”

  My muscles lock up, and everything else inside me shuts down.

  “What? You live here? Like, you actually own it?”

  No, no, no. This can’t be his.

  He frowns, his voice coming out almost stern. “Yeah, it’s my house, darlin’. Is there a problem?”

  Oh, God, no. He can’t be rich.

  He just can’t be.

  Panic seizes my chest.

  I mean, I knew he had to have some money. He’s a successful lawyer in Charleston, one of the most expensive cities in the entire country to live in. I figured he was well off.

  But owning a mansion like this on Murray Boulevard is a whole different level of filthy fucking rich.

  I know he and Grant are polar opposites. I know that. But they clearly have at least one thing in common. And now I’m wondering if Carter and I are polar opposites, too. Standing in the face of his wealth like this can’t make that anymore apparent.

  Rebound sex or not, I’m not sure I can get involved with another rich guy.

  I back away from the gate’s entrance. And from Carter. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  Before I can turn and bolt, he lunges forward and grabs my arm. “What are you talking about? You’re leaving? Why?”

  I’m shaking my head, refusing to meet his eyes. “This just isn’t going to happen.”

  His grip is unyielding. It feels like he’s got the same hold on my heart, and I’m not even supposed to like the guy. This was only supposed to be about sex and getting back up on that horse.

  Dammit, I can’t even do rebound sex right.

  “Why? Sloane, you’re not making sense. What did I do?”

  “You didn’t do anything,” I answer meekly. “I’ve just changed my mind. I’m not ready.”

  He’s silent for several moments. “You’re lying. Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it.”

  My laughter comes out flat. “This isn’t something you can fix. I just got divorced this week, Carter. I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry.”

  He takes my chin between his fingers and forces eye contact.

  There’s obvious hurt glinting from his pools of hazel.

  Why does he have to make this even harder?

  “I know I’ve come on strong,” he says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I can back off or slow down or whatever you need. But don’t tell me this has to end before it’s even begun.”

  I glance back up at the house. His house. “I’m sorry, Carter. I…can’t.”

  “Talk to me. Don’t just walk away.”

  The please that goes unspoken at the end of that sentence is so loud he might as well have shouted it.

  I need to get the hell out of here before I break down into uncontrollable sobs right in front of his multimillion-dollar home.

  “Please let me go,” I whisper.

  I can sense he wants to say so much more, even force me to stay or spit angry words at me.

  But because he’s Grant’s polar opposite, he respects my request and releases my arm.

  Tears well in my eyes as I turn away from him and do exactly what he asked me not to.

  I walk away.

  And regret every step I take.

  “I am not drunk.”

  I’m a little drunk.

  “And were you also drunk when you turned down Mr. Law & Order?” Quinn asks while Harper swipes eyeshadow across her closed lid. “Because that’s the only explanation I have for why you walked away from that.”

  Harper makes a sound of agreement while concentrating on blending the right colors together on Quinn’s eyes. “They don’t make men like him anymore. Maybe that’s why none of us have found keepers. We’re looking in the wrong age bracket.”

  Gretchen scoffs from her crouched position on the couch where she’s painting her toenails. “Yeah, but his age bracket is also closer to Viagra, discounts at buffets, and erectile d
ysfunction.” She glances at me sympathetically. “No offense, babe.”

  “Pretty sure there’s nothing dysfunctional about his equipment,” I mutter, not that I would know.

  I take a big gulp from my wine glass. In order to finish off the half bottle of tequila sitting in her freezer, Gretchen and I made a pitcher of margaritas. But the four of us burned through that pretty fast, so we had to move on to our backup bottles of wine that we always keep handy for slumber parties.

  And yeah, we’re in our mid-twenties and still have fucking slumber parties.

  Better than getting slutted up and trolling the bars for our buzzes, right?

  Meh. We still do that, too.

  Harper is experimenting with some new makeup products she created, so we’re all gathered in Gretchen’s loft, which she’s still allowing me to crash in while I save up enough money for my own place. Harper likes to dabble and frequently uses us as her cosmetic guinea pigs. Not that she ever has to force us.

  Her making us look pretty while we get drunk off our asses?

  Uh, sign me up.

  “Yet another reason to not kick his ass to the curb,” Quinn argues. “I still don’t get it. He sounds nothing like your dipshit ex-husband.”

  “He’s not,” I sigh, hating myself a little more with every sip of alcohol. “But he probably sleeps on a bed of cash every night.”

  Gretchen chokes on her wine, sputtering. “You turned down Blow sex? Jesus, babe. That’s one of my ultimate fantasies. You could have at least let me live vicariously through you before you dropped his fine ass. Where’s the sisterhood?”

  I fight off images of Carter buck-ass naked, lying on top of a sea of hundred-dollar bills. Again, I’m no gold-digger. But Christ Almighty, what a sight that would be. I’m convinced he’s got the tightest derriere of any thirty-eight-year-old man on the planet. And if the size of the bulge he pressed up against me last night is any indication, he’s got more than just his ass to be proud of.

  Suddenly, the image of him sprawled out on that bed of cash gets a boost in the form of his red bowtie tied around his thick erection.

  I was really looking forward to unwrapping him.

  I even slept with that damn white rose on my nightstand last night.

  I sigh again and swig again.

  “That much money complicates things, Gretch,” I finally say, my voice all kinds of pathetic and forlorn. “I don’t want it to be a factor in a potential relationship.”

  Relationship? I thought we were just talking about sex.

  They didn’t know they’d be attending my pity party tonight, did they?

  “But you already admitted that you like him, right?” Harper prods as she moves on to Quinn’s other eye. “And that was before you found out he was rich.”

  “Yeah, sound familiar? That’s exactly how it was with Grant. I made him look better in my mind than he really was. Then when I found out he came from money, I thought to myself well, it can’t make him worse, right? So, what’s the harm? And we all know how wrong I was with that one.”

  “Are you saying Carter isn’t as good in real life as he is in your mind?” Quinn asks doubtfully, peeking an eye open at me.

  I pour myself another glass because why the hell not. “Maybe? I mean, I’d already decided to have rebound sex with him. But you all know me. I’m like, biologically programmed to need to feel something for the guy I sleep with. I can’t seem to control it. What if I manufactured all the good parts of him unconsciously?”

  “So what if you did?” Gretchen asks nonchalantly. “I thought this was all supposed to be about moving on anyway. If this version of him turns out to be a mirage, then you shouldn’t have a problem with rough riding him in his Antebellum mansion before saying sayonara.”

  “The only thing is…” I trail off, wondering if I should even reveal this next tidbit.

  Harper switches to applying Quinn’s eyeliner, tossing me a look. “Is what?”

  I squint at the rug I’m sitting on, as if the plush shag holds all the answers I seek. “I don’t think he’s in it just for my rebound sex. I think he wants…more.”

  His expression from last night keeps flashing in my mind. When he was asking me to stay, just before I did the opposite of that. He’d looked concerned and hurt and maybe even a little…panicked?

  “Do you?” Gretchen asks pointedly.

  I grunt, throwing my hands up. “I don’t know! I wasn’t supposed to be asking myself these questions mere days after my divorce. This is supposed to be the time for no thinking and no drama. You told me to have fun, Gretch.”

  She grins wryly. “Sounds like you had fun to me.”

  I ignore that. “Everything with Grant and the divorce is still raw. How can I trust any of my emotions right now? I break free of one guy only to fall for a different one two seconds later? That’s a recipe for disaster in every movie that’s ever been made.”

  “Not necessarily,” Harper protests. “Life has a warped sense of humor sometimes. The timing can be so confusing that it fucks with your head, making you think it’s not meant to be, when in reality, it’s exactly meant to be.”

  “But you all know I’m not good at stuff like this,” I whine.

  “Stuff like what?” Gretchen asks.

  “Stuff…” I struggle to find the right words, “out of my comfort zone. Anything that has even the slightest risk to it always blows up in my face.”

  Gretchen howls with laughter. “Oh, yeah. Like the time you told me you got arrested for trying to steal a stop sign with your high school friends.”

  Quinn’s eyes shoot open, sending Harper cursing. “You’ve been arrested?”

  “The cop was just trying to teach me a lesson,” I grumble. “It didn’t go on my record. There were three other people there with me, yet I’m the only one who got hauled away in handcuffs.”

  Though that probably had something to do with the fact that they were all smart enough to run away when they heard a car coming.

  “Didn’t you tell me once that your dad caught you sneaking out of your house in the middle of the night?” Harper asks with a brilliant smile.

  I groan, while they all snicker. “My shirt got caught on a nail that was protruding from the windowsill and I got stuck. When I yanked on the shirt to pull it loose, I lost my balance and fell into the bushes below the window. It made so much noise that Daddy stormed from the house with his shotgun and almost littered my ass with buckshot. He grounded me for a month.”

  Their cackling goes on for a full minute.

  I roll my eyes. Sigh. Swig.

  “Do you see my point, though?” I ask after they finally get ahold of themselves. “The adventurous stuff is not in my DNA. It always ends badly. Why would this thing with Carter be any different?”

  Gretchen tsks her tongue at me. “Like I keep telling you, you’re way overthinking this.”

  Harper hisses through her teeth when she gets a little rough with her eyeliner brush. “Sorry.”

  Quinn jerks back. “Shit, watch it, Kylie Jenner. I may not be a test bunny, but I would still prefer to not go blind, thanks.”

  “Quit complaining, you baby,” Harper scolds. “You’ll thank me for this once you see the masterpiece I’ve created.”

  “So, what’s this new stuff you’re trying out?” I ask Harper, trying to get the subject off of me.

  Her face instantly lights up like Times Square. “I’m mixing hydroxyethylcellulose, which is a thickening agent, and potassium cetyl sulfate, which is an emulsifier, together to try and create a new base cream to apply underneath eyeshadow. The thickening agent should increase the viscosity of the cream, so that the eyeshadow goes on a lot smoother and lasts longer throughout the day. My goal is to create a sweet spot between the eyeshadow powders that don’t go on thick enough and fade too easily and the gels that get sticky and clump up. The cream should allow the texture of the eyeshadow to meet somewhere in the middle.”

  We all gape at her.

  You’d
think we’d be used to it by now, but she still blows us away.

  Gretchen is the first to break the silence by laughing. “Jesus Christ. She talks like that and looks like fucking Barbie. How you don’t have a hundred Ken dolls drooling after you everywhere you go is beyond me.”

  Harper’s smile is coy as she winks. “Who says I don’t? I’m just very selective.”

  Gretchen is spot-on with her description. Harper is gorgeously tan with platinum blond hair that falls to the middle of her back, long legs, and mint green eyes. Since she’s a genius with makeup, her face always looks impeccably flawless, even though her skin is clear enough to not require any product at all. Really, all that’s missing is a pink Corvette.

  “No, that’s called being ridiculously picky,” Quinn argues. “That OCD list you’ve got for The One is way too specific. No one is that perfect. Real-life Ken dolls don’t exist.”

  “Good, because I’m not interested in a Ken doll,” Harper throws back. “That’s boring. I need my guy to be a lot more flexible.” She waggles her eyebrows, making me giggle.

  “And maybe have a dick instead of a hunk of plastic,” Gretchen suggests. “Just a thought.”

  “And my list doesn’t specify the ‘perfect’ guy,” Harper corrects her former stepsister. “It’s simply used as a guideline to find the ‘right’ guy.”

  I zone out a little as the three of them dive into what defines the right guy and mentally tick off what would be on my list.

  - Smart

  - Ambitious

  - Handsome (let’s not kid ourselves here)

  - Good sense of humor

  - Kind-hearted

  - Appreciates history

  - Takes good care of himself physically and mentally

  - Wants a family

  - Sensible with money

  And being rich is nowhere on that list. Not that it’s necessarily banned from the list. It’s just not something I’m actively looking for.

  But does that mean it has to be a hard limit?

  Ironically, Grant doesn’t have any of those qualities except for being handsome. How else would he have gotten so many women to sleep with him, since I now know there’s been far more than just the barista?