“Brie? You still there?” Meg asks.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here. Just thinking …”
Everything makes sense now—how perfect Grant seemed. The way he treated me like a queen. Proposing to me so quickly, desperate to lock me down as soon as possible. The prenup.
Oh my God.
The prenup that Cainan drafted for him.
The letter mentioned clauses they’d discussed … was Cainan in on this too?
Was this entire thing nothing more than a way to access my family’s money? To swindle me any way they could? Did they run extensive background checks? Dig up every convincing detail they could find?
My throat constricts and my mouth is dry. A wave of emotions floods through me, but I force it away because if Meg hears one hitch in my voice, she’ll demand to know what’s going on, and I don’t want to talk about any of this right now.
“Sweets, I’m going to grab a shower,” I say. “Text me your flight details, okay? Can’t wait to see you …”
We end the call and I sit in stunned silence, staring at a humming refrigerator until the seven o’clock hour turns into something closer to nine.
Later this afternoon, when my dad and Grant should be done golfing, I’ll compose myself. Make the call. And ensure damn well my father knows exactly the kind of person he’s dealing with.
After this, I want nothing to do with Grant.
And nothing to do with Cainan.
42
Cainan
“Heyyyy, asshole.” Grant is hammered when I arrive at our penthouse suite Friday night. I drop my leather duffel and let the door float close. “About fucking time.”
Every word is slurred and exaggerated. If I recall, his flight landed at one PM. It’s now five. He’s been drinking for hours. He tries to stand to greet me, only to slump back over on the overstuffed sofa. Giggling.
Giggling …
It’s going to be a long weekend.
But maybe it’s for the best.
I haven’t seen nor heard from Brie since last Saturday, when I drew the tattoo and I met a side of her I never knew existed as she told me to leave with tears in her eyes. I gave her a few days. Thought maybe she needed some space. Some time to calm down. I texted her Tuesday night, asking if we could talk.
She replied immediately with four axis-tilting words: DON’T CONTACT ME AGAIN.
“Grab a beer, asshole.” Grant points to the fridge in the kitchen.
Beyond the window behind him, the Vegas lights glimmer and shine. The city is alive.
It’s a feeling I haven’t known in quite some time—aside from the time I spent with Brie, when everything felt Technicolor and animated in a way it never had before.
I hopped on my flight earlier today with every intention of breaking myself out of this, of convincing myself that whatever I thought we were destined to have was an unrealistic pipe dream that never would’ve worked out anyway.
But the instant the wheels touched down at McCarran International, I woke from my half-assed nap and discovered I was the same pathetic sap I was when I boarded the plane.
The hotel door swings open as I help myself to a beer from the overstocked fridge, and a handful of guys come in. I don’t recognize two of them. I assume they’re friends of his from Phoenix.
“What’s up, man?” One of them gives our man of the hour a sloppy high five. He reeks of hard liquor when he passes me.
“Please tell me I didn’t come all the way here for a goddamned sausage party,” another one says.
“The girls are on their way,” Collin Hilliard, a guy we’ve kept in touch with from our days at Montclair, squeezes behind me and grabs a can of Coors Light. “Good to see you, man. Heard about your accident. Sorry I couldn’t come to your party, but hey, you’re looking good. Feeling good?”
I twist the top of my beer and nod. “Yep. All good.”
Lies. In every sense of the word. But it doesn’t matter.
“What’ve you been up to?” he asks. “Still helping rich, miserable couples realize their dreams?”
“Every day. You?”
“Took over my dad’s insurance agency a couple years ago. Becca and I just had our first kid a year ago,” he says. “I’d show you pics, but I don’t want the last thing we see before getting a lap dance to be my daughter’s face.”
Gross.
And agreed.
“No worries.” I squeeze his shoulder and head toward the living room part of the suite, finding a chair by the window. Out of habit, I check my phone. Two texts from a couple of friends back in the city. Four new work emails. Nothing from Brie. Naturally.
The next knock at the door sends Grant to his feet, knocking over miniature glass bottles of vodka onto the expensive-looking rug in the process.
“It’s the girls,” Grant announces, like the horny frat boy he used to be.