The Prenup - Lauren Layne Page 0,34

all too aware of the fact that I’m leaning over him, the low-cut neckline of my tank leaving the tops of my boobs pressed against his chest, which is very bare and very warm.

His head moves ever so slightly toward me, his cheek pressing against mine. The scratch of it against my skin makes me tingle as I wonder what that slight rasp would feel like on other parts of my skin, wondering what he’d do if I pulled back just enough to press my lips to his, to challenge his insistence that there are no sparks between us.

I don’t get the chance to find out, because I kid you not, in the sort of crappy timing that you think only happens in movies … the doorbell rings.

Literally. The freaking doorbell. Rings.

I jump in surprise, straightening as he pulls away from me. We stare at each other in a moment of surprise, both at what just happened, as well as the fact that someone’s at the front door at seven on a Saturday morning.

“Groceries?” I ask, since he gets all of the groceries delivered.

He shakes his head. “Nothing scheduled.”

The doorbell rings again, and I spring into action, exiting his bedroom and pulling the door shut behind me—partially because he asked, and partially because I need a minute. I stay still just for a moment, eyes closed, ordering my heart to stop pounding.

The doorbell rings again.

“God, okay, coming,” I mutter, half jogging to the front door.

I open it to see a woman I don’t recognize, and though I try really hard not to make snap judgments about people I haven’t met, who I haven’t even spoken with, I’m just going to come right out and paint a mental picture for you …

She’s got a mean face. Pretty. Definitely pretty, in a patrician, no-carbs kind of way. Her hair is long, thick and very, very red, her eyes bright blue. Great mouth. Very Angelina Jolie. All good features, in theory, except the pretty blue eyes are cold, the full mouth a little hard, the perfectly shaped nose turned up, not due to genetics, but because she’s actually looking down her nose at me. She’s also tall. Did I mention tall?

“Hi,” I say, smiling, because she may be mean, but I am not. “Can I help you?”

She looks irritated by the question. “I’m here to see Colin.”

Colin, first name. Not Mr. Walsh. A social call, then. Interesting.

“He’ll be right out. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”

My use of we is a polite but pointed opportunity for her to explain who she is and what she’s doing here, but she doesn’t take the bait.

I try again, extending my hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlotte. Colin’s wife.”

It’s the first time I’ve used that phrase, and I’m not at all sure how I feel about the fact that it doesn’t feel nearly as strange as it should to be saying it aloud.

But I don’t have time to dwell on it.

If the woman’s face is mean, her smile has a downright malicious note to it. Slowly, she reaches out to shake my hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’m Rebecca. Colin’s fiancée.”

Chapter 17

Saturday, September 5

“Charlotte. Charlotte, damn it. Open the door.”

I don’t move from where I sit cross-legged on my bed. Colin rattles the doorknob, but I’ve locked it.

I hear him sigh. “I’d like to speak with you about this.”

I scowl at the closed door. Oh, you’d like to speak with me about this, would you? You’d like to speak with me about the fact that it’s been nearly a month since you’ve told me you wanted a divorce, and not once have you bothered to mention the very pressing reason why.

“Charlotte. Please.”

I tilt my head a little at that, both at the unexpected use of please when he usually just barks orders, as well as the faint note of desperation in the way he says it.

The moment doesn’t last long. He rattles the doorknob again. “You’re acting like a child,” he snaps, the quiet, desperate note of his voice replaced with irritation in its purest form.

Strangely though, it’s this irritated Colin that has me climbing off the bed and crossing to the door to unlock it. He’s quite right, sitting in a locked room is a bit immature, and I refuse to participate in any activity that would allow him to transfer blame for this situation onto me.

He’s in the wrong, 100 percent, and I want to make sure he knows it.

The moment I