The Best Man - Page 18

Cainan

A prenuptial agreement?

And what exactly had they talked about …

“Brie?” Grant’s velvet voice from behind sends a shock to my heart, and I grab at my chest, sucking in a startled breath before turning to face him. “Everything okay?”

Once I compose myself, I take the papers off the counter and hand them over. “What’s this?”

He accepts them, folding them in half. “Just trying to protect us both. Everyone does it. Especially people like us.”

“People like us?”

“You know, professionals who are established in their careers and have a lot to lose should things go south.” He places the stack aside and pulls me against him. “I know it’s not the most romantic thing in the world to talk about, but it’s in both of our best interests. No one ever gets married thinking things are going to blow up in their faces.”

I pull away.

I’m not upset about the prenup.

And I agree it’s smart and necessary.

But shouldn’t he be discussing clauses and specifics with me first?

“What did he mean by adding some clauses based on what you two had talked about?” I ask.

Grant’s full mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “Standard stuff. Retirement accounts. Assets. Those kinds of things. You’ll see the contract when it’s finished and you’re welcome to take it to your attorney. Have her go through it with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I lift my hand to my temple, which is beginning to throb. I haven’t had a tension headache in months, but lately I’m getting them every other day. “Should probably go to bed … we’ve got that hike in the morning and then brunch with my sister and her husband.”

“Babe, please don’t sweat it. We can talk about it more tomorrow if you want.”

Grant hits the light switch and follows me to his room, where we burrow under the covers in a pitch-black room, beneath a whirring ceiling fan.

“Next September, okay?” I ask before I drift off.

“What?”

“I want to wait a year. At least.” Maybe longer …

“I’d elope with you tomorrow if you gave me the word,” he says. “And I’d also wait for you forever if I had to. Anything you want, okay? I want you to enjoy this.”

I nuzzle into his arm and press my cheek against his muscled shoulder, wondering if I’d miss this—miss him—if it were all gone tomorrow. Within minutes, his breathing slows and steadies. He’s out cold, not a care in the world, I presume. But me? I’m wide awake. Alone with my thoughts.

With the truth.

Am I delaying the wedding?

Or am I delaying calling the wedding off?

10

Cainan

“Did you finish those conflict checks?” I ask Paloma Wednesday morning.

She cups the receiver of her phone with her left hand—revealing a humble diamond engagement ring on her fourth finger.

“When did that happen?” I point.

“Yes,” she says, “And three months ago. Oh, and Claire’s on her way here.”

Paloma returns to her phone call and I head to my office, digging my keys from my pocket. Before I have a chance to unlock my door, the sound of a baby cooing echoes from down the hall. I abandon my post and investigate, partially out of boredom but mostly out of curiosity.

Four doors down, one of our junior partners is bouncing a pink-clad infant on his knee. His wife—whose name escapes me—turns to give me a dainty finger wave.

I hadn’t the slightest idea they were expecting, and judging by the age of the infant, it was clearly born while I was out.

“Cain, you want to meet the future partner of DuVall, James, and Renato PC?” he turns her to face me, and I’m met with two blinking blue eyes with a spray of dark lashes—followed promptly by an impressive stream of white projectile that misses me by mere inches.

His wife makes a grab for a flower-covered diaper bag, grabbing wet wipes by the handful, dabbing up ivory vomit from the navy blue carpet, and the junior partner looks horrified, holding his daughter out as if she’s contagious.

“I’ll let you two tend to this … we’ll catch up later. Congrats on the new addition.” I show myself out, and on the way to my office, I’m reminded as to why I’ve never wanted children in the first place.

It’s ironic when I think about that dream with the wife and kids—how protective I felt of them, how proud I was watching them. How natural it all seemed.

Perhaps I’ve given that dream too much credence these past several months. Or maybe something in me truly changed when I hit my head in that accident. I’ve always been pragmatic, a man who knows exactly what he wants and makes no apologies for it. But now I find myself daydreaming more than a man should, searching faces in crowds for a woman who likely doesn’t even exist.

I’ve got to let this go.

Tags: Winter Renshaw Romance
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