CHAPTER ONE
ANDI
I’m reasonably certain I’ll be trapped in this stifling conference room until I die an old lady. It’s going to take at least a lifetime for my supposedly-in-love client and her geriatric fiancé to reach an agreement on this stupid prenup.
At least it isn’t another divorce case. While it’s incredibly satisfying to help someone escape a miserable—sometimes abusive—relationship and regain their autonomy, divorce cases always remind me of my own messy breakup. Mark and I weren’t married, but after seven long years, sometimes it felt like we were.
My client, Miss Deborah Barrett, is glaring across the table at her ancient fiancé. I haven’t bothered to calculate her age, but I’m pretty sure she’s barely past the fake ID stage of life. Her low-cut blouse really highlights her silicone-filled assets, and she has a look of permanent surprise thanks to her micro-bladed brows. She folds her arms tightly, further emphasizing her ample chest, and purses lips that are bursting with filler.
“I don’t see why you won’t agree to an extra grand a month,” Deborah says.
Her fiancé, the esteemed Dr. Trevor Daniels, snorts. He’s one of the most sought-after plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. He’s also at least twice her age, with shortly trimmed gray hair and enough Botox to eliminate any frown lines (because there’s no way his lines are from laughing).
“An extra grand a month, paid out over seven years, is eighty-four thousand dollars,” Dr. Daniels says. Maybe Deborah can’t do math on her own, so he has to spell out the obvious.
I honestly have no idea how these two ended up together. Aside from a mutual love of dollar signs and cosmetic procedures, they seem to have nothing in common.
Deborah leans across the table, the front of her shirt gaping open as she grasps her fiancé’s hand. She bites her lip in a very seductive sort of way, eyelashes fluttering as she looks down.
Scratch that—I know exactly how they ended up together.
“Trev, this is silly.” Her voice drips with poisoned sugar. “We’ll never get divorced, so why does the amount of alimony matter?”
“Exactly.” Dr. Daniels forces a smile. “It shouldn’t matter at all.”
I barely withhold an eye roll and see his lawyer, Holly, doing the same. I understand why couples sign prenups—really, I do—but in my admittedly limited experience, all they seem to accomplish is breeding distrust.
Then again, most of my prenup clients are less soulmates destined for an eternity of bliss and more gold diggers eager for a big fat payday after they serve their time in the prison of matrimony.
My eyes wander from the four-carat rock on Deborah’s left ring finger to my own bare one. If Mark had proposed six months ago instead of leaving me for another woman, would we have gotten a prenup? The romantic in me says no, but the realist says absolutely.
Marriage is a risk, prenups are a good insurance policy, and Mark was clearly a lousy person to bet my future on.
But it’s my job to take care of my client regardless of my personal baggage, so I say, “What Deborah is asking for is well within the alimony guidelines set forth by the state of California.”
“The very upper end,” Holly cuts in. She’s a few years older than me and works for a competing law firm, but I love it when we cross paths because she’s the kind of lawyer I want to become. Holly thrives on all the aspects of family law that I hate. That’s why her nickname in law circles is Venus Flytrap—she’s beautiful but deadly.
“Yes, but still within the limits.” I look back and forth between Deborah and Dr. Daniels. “However, the two of you are going to have to compromise, or we’ll never reach an agreement.”
I make a valiant effort to avoid glancing at the clock on the wall. It has to be close to six, which gives me an hour to finish up this contract, buy a birthday present for my bestie Rachel, and get to her party.
I’m so going to be late.
“Yes, a compromise,” Holly agrees. “Why don’t we meet in the middle? I think an extra five hundred a month is more than fair to both parties.”
She glances at me for confirmation, and I nod, exhaustion sweeping through me.
“Okay,” Dr. Daniels says. “But I want the parrot.”
If I weren’t such a professional, I’d snort.
Deborah, however, gasps in outrage. “I’ve had Maurice since he was a baby.”
“And yet somehow I’m the one who takes care of him. Who cleans his cage? Who makes sure he gets fed? Whose name has he learned to say? Not yours, that’s for certain.”
Deborah’s hands are actually clenched into fists, her eyes wide with fury. “Palm cockatoos don’t talk as much as other parrots. Maurice is my bird, not yours. My mother gave him to me as a graduation present!”
“Yes, and you’re still upset he wasn’t a Porsche.”
I have to smother a laugh under the guise of a cough.
“If you loved me half as much as you love Maurice, maybe we wouldn’t need a prenup,” Deborah hurls at him.
It takes another thirty minutes of negotiating before Dr. Daniels concedes Deborah can keep her pet, and they both agree to a final alimony figure. Holly and I stand shoulder to shoulder as they disappear into the elevator, taking some of my stress with them.
Four years of undergrad work, three years at Stanford Law, and I’m reduced to hearing couples bicker about a sixteen thousand dollar bird. Those student loans are feeling less and less worth it by the day.
Maybe all relationships are doomed to fail. Honestly, it’s a wonder Mark and I lasted as long as we did.
This isn’t what I imagined myself doing as a lawyer. But junior associates don’t get to pick their cases, even if their dad is a partner at the firm. Not after only a year on the job. So for now, I’ll keep working divorces, with the occasional prenup or adoption case sprinkled in, and grab pro bono cases I’m passionate about whenever my father allows.
I should’ve ignored Mark’s pointed jabs and continued ballroom dancing after graduating with my Bachelor’s. I’d love to waltz my stress away right about now.
Does Ben still dance? I should ask Rachel, since he’s her older brother. In high school, we commanded the dance floor. Even won a few competitions. Ben had a way of effortlessly leading me around the room that I haven’t experienced since. I still regret not snagging him for a slow song at Rachel’s wedding last year. But I’d been busy with my maid-of-honor duties, and I hadn’t wanted to upset Mark.
“I didn’t think we’d ever reach an agreement,” Holly says, rolling her shoulders with a sigh. The hallway is eerily quiet, most of the office doors shut tight. “Deborah’s filing for that payday the second they hit seven years.”
That’s when—according to their prenup—she’s allotted the maximum amount of alimony. But Holly has more faith in my client than I do.
“I’ll be shocked if they make it to their second anniversary,” I say.
“Loser buys dinner for the winner?”
I stick out my hand, and we shake on it. “Deal.”
I hate how jaded I’ve become in the past year, but I don’t know how to walk back my feelings after everything I’ve experienced. I’m glad I can help my clients escape awful, often abusive marriages. But it doesn’t do much to reassure me that happily ever after is real.
Maybe Mark didn’t cheat on me, but that doesn’t ease the sting of being left for another woman.
“Got any fun plans tonight?” I ask Holly as we gather our things from the conference room.
“Just a date with my television. Aren’t you going to a birthday party?”
“Yes, and I’m running late. Rachel’s already going to hate that I’m showing up solo.”
“She still feels guilty about the breakup, huh?”
“Yeah.” What happened with Mark isn’t Rachel’s fault, but try telling her that. She’s convinced the only way to obtain absolution is by finding me a new boyfriend. The fact that I’m not interested in a relationship is apparently irrelevant.
Back in my office, I grab the files for my most pressing cases and look around, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. The screen on my computer is dark, pens neatly arranged near the keyboard. I pick up the scratch paper I used today and run it through the shredder, then put the books stacked on my desk back in their proper place.
My eyes land on the box sitting neatly beside the bookcase. It’s taped shut, with Mark’s New York address on the label. I’ve looked at that box every day for three months. It doesn’t contain anything important, just a few items I found lying around my condo—a sweatshirt, a few books, an engraved fountain pen—but I need to send it to him and close that chapter of my life for good.
Tomorrow, I promise myself as I flip off the lights. I’ll take a lunch break—my first one in months—and deliver the box to the post office if it kills me.
Too bad it doesn’t contain anything I can pass off as a present for Rachel. Swinging by her favorite boutique will make me even later for the party, but I can’t give a card with cash. Again.
In my car, the GPS analyzes current traffic patterns and tells me I’ll arrive at Rachel’s at 7:32. So much for stopping at the boutique. I’ll have to swing by the nearby grocery store for a card and write her an IOU for … something. Maybe a sweater or a purse. That’s more thoughtful than a gift card, right?
I fiddle with the radio, settling on my favorite salsa station. My foot taps against the floorboard as I sit in traffic, and I long to wrap my arms around a tall gentleman and dance. My mind flashes back to Ben. His arms always felt strong and secure. I took every dip and jump knowing he’d catch me. No other partner made my heart race with the quickstep and my limbs melt with a waltz.
I miss dancing. Somewhere along the way, I let my enthusiasm for law—and my carefully structured career plans—drag me away from it. Come to think of it, I miss Ben. We choreographed our most technical dance ever to this song during his senior year and spent hours practicing it. No matter how many times I fell, or how breathless I became from exertion, he could still make me laugh.
The song comes to an end, and the station’s DJs start discussing the latest celebrity gossip.
“This one is for my single ladies,” the female radio announcer says. “If you’ve been living under a rock, billionaire Luke Ryder recently signed with the dating service Toujour. Now’s your chance for that Cinderella story.”
“Why is a billionaire bothering with online dating?” the male announcer asks. “If he’s looking for a girlfriend, all he has to do is walk outside.”
“Sure, if he wants just anyone.” I can almost hear the female announcer rolling her eyes. “But that’s what makes Toujour different. It’s not just online dating—it’s a full-service matchmaking company. They claim they can find your soulmate.”
That makes me snort. Soulmates are a myth that lonely singles tell themselves to feel better about being alone. But I don’t need to feed myself lies. I know the truth—I’m not single because I haven’t found my soulmate. I’m single because men aren’t worth the risk and I’m not betting my future on a relationship. Again.
At the grocery store, I grab a birthday card and pick the shortest checkout line, tapping the card impatiently against my leg. It’s 7:42. This side trip will cost me at least fifteen minutes.
The spiky-haired cashier pops her gum as she slowly scans items. It’s like she knows I’m in a rush and wants to aggravate me.
“Andi?”
I pause and turn, taking in the woman standing behind me. She’s tall and slender, with russet-colored hair pulled up in a top-knot and a face devoid of makeup. It’s been almost six years since I’ve seen her, but I’d recognize those pronounced cheekbones and sparkling eyes anywhere.
“Elle!” I wrap my arms around her with a laugh. “It’s been ages.”
“At least five years,” Elle agrees. “Sometimes I see your posts on social media, but it’s good to see you in person. You’re working at your dad’s law firm, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there about a year. But what about you? I’ve watched a few of the dance videos you’ve posted. Are you still competing?”
“Not anymore. I work for a charity now—Footsteps for Change. We offer free dance classes to underprivileged children.”
A whisper of jealousy slices through me, but I push it away. I get to help people at my job, too—just in a different way. “Elle, that’s fantastic.”
“Thanks. I really love it there. Research proves that dance helps develop young brains, and we recently opened a crisis center. It’s staffed twenty-four hours a day so that teens have somewhere safe to go when things get tough at home. It’s exhausting trying to get the charity up and running, but rewarding too.”
“Your total is $6.32,” the cashier says, popping her gum.
For a birthday card? I fish my debit card out of my wallet and tap it. “I wish I could stay and catch up, but I’m late for a party.”
Elle withdraws a business card from her purse. “Call me sometime. We’re always looking for volunteers willing to teach a dance class, and you’d be perfect.”
“I don’t dance anymore.” The answer is a reflex, born from years of turning down anything that might interfere with my plans for law.
“All the more reason to come teach. Do you have a card? I’ll call you.”
I think of all the reasons I quit dance—the time it took away from studying, the physical toll on my body. Mark’s disapproval. “I’m pretty busy these days, but it sounds fun.”
“We’re always in need of family law attorneys willing to do some pro bono work, too.”
“I can absolutely help with that, as long as my firm approves.” I pull a business card out of my wallet and hand it over. “I’m sorry I have to run, but let’s talk soon.”
“Definitely. It was nice seeing you, Andi.”
“You too.” I grab my bag, then wave goodbye.
I hope Elle calls. Maybe I don’t have time for ballroom dance, but helping a charity for kids is exactly the kind of legal work I love.
It’s not like I have a partner to dance with, anyway. Ben—the only partner I’ve ever felt completely in sync with—now lives in Arizona near his fiancée. They’ve had a pretty long engagement, but Rachel says she’s certain a wedding’s happening next year.
I don’t want to dance with anyone but him. It’s one of the reasons I quit after completing my undergrad degree. None of my college dance partners held a candle to Ben.
I pull onto Rachel’s crowded street at 7:57 p.m., nearly an hour late. Christmas lights line the eaves of the house, and three wire reindeer twinkle in the front yard. There’s even a giant evergreen wreath on the front door.
I knock, stooping low to avoid the boughs of the wreath. A few moments later, I hear footsteps. But they’re heavy—not the light steps that accompany Rachel. Her husband, Peter, maybe? I glance at my phone. 7:58.
The door swings open. I drop my phone in my purse and glance up, then blink in surprise. A lanky figure stands before me. He has tousled toffee-colored hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and a five o’clock shadow.
Rachel’s brother. My favorite dance partner.
It’s Ben.
ENGLISH EDITION
358 Pages
7-8 Hours
84k Words
