The Prenup - Lauren Layne Page 0,47

of meh about her. I can’t tell if you’re as mad at my brother as I am. I can’t even tell if I drive you as crazy as I think I drive you. I never know what you’re thinking or feeling. Ever.”

Colin doesn’t respond. Not so much as a twitch—definitely not a verbal response—and I wonder if I’ve officially overstepped this time.

He finally responds, and true to form, it’s with as few words as possible. “You do.”

“I do what?”

He glances over. “Drive me crazy.”

“Good to know,” I say with a laugh, reaching across the car and tugging the steering wheel slightly to bring us back to the right side of the road. “What about the rest of the stuff?”

He exhales and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “No complaints about my job. I like my wardrobe. And my apartment. Nobody enjoys coffee as much as you do. Yes, I’m angry with your brother too. Does that cover it?”

“What about Rebecca?” I ask, hating how much I want to know the answer to that question.

He hesitates. “What about her?”

“Are you crazy in love?”

“Maybe that’s how you and I are different,” he says slowly. “I don’t believe there should be anything crazy about love.”

“What should love be?” I ask.

“Calm. Comforting. Serene.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds boring.”

But I feel a little pang. Because it sounds kind of nice, too.

And very much out of reach.

Chapter 24

Saturday, September 12

“You accused me of not expressing sentiment over food.” Colin uses his fork to point at the plate of fried artichokes we’re sharing. “These are surprisingly excellent.”

“They really are,” I agree, dragging an artichoke heart through the provided dipping sauce, something creamy and salty and delicious. “My friend mentioned the restaurants in this area were outstanding, and so far, she’s right.”

After a couple hours of driving, in which I’m proud to say, my husband worked his way all the way up to a respectable forty miles per hour while staying on the right side of the road, we realized we’d skipped lunch and opted for an early dinner before checking into the hotel for the night.

Joc had given me a handful of recommendations and I’d picked the one that was open, but it’s been a good choice so far. The cocktails are strong, the appetizers flavorful, the company …

I look across the table at Colin, who looks more relaxed than I’m used to him being.

The company is growing on me. A little too much.

“Any questions about the menu?” our server asks, a relaxed twenty-something guy wearing jeans, flannel, suspenders, and a bright red goatee that suits him perfectly.

“Yes,” I say, picking it up and gesturing at it. “How big are the plates over here on the Mains section?”

“Probably a little smaller than your typical entree size. Generous enough to work as a lighter entree, certainly, but we always recommend getting a couple of things for the table and sharing them. More things to try that way.”

I glance at Colin in question, and he shrugs in what I’m pretty sure is acquiescence. As established, it’s hard to tell with him.

“How are the scallops?” I ask the server.

“The mussels are better,” he says without hesitation.

I look at Colin. “Mussels okay?”

“Sure. Order whatever you want.”

“Okay, we’ll do one order of the mussels, the sweet potato gnocchi, and … Brussels sprouts?”

Colin gives a quick shake of his head.

“Carrots,” I correct. “We’ll get an order of the carrots.”

That gets me a slight nod of approval from Colin and assurances from the server that we chose well, as he picks up our menus and goes to place our order in the computer.

“Ah ha,” I say, leaning forward, smiling gleefully. “I learned something about you. You, sir, do not like Brussels sprouts.”

“I’ll eat them. But I don’t love them.”

“Taste or texture?” I ask, sipping my drink, a light pink confection with something foamy and sweet on top.

“Shape,” he says. “When I was a boy, I thought they looked like little alien heads.”

I tilt my head back and forth, studying him. “Nope. I don’t see it.”

“What?” he asks, slowly chewing another artichoke heart. “Brussels sprouts looking like alien heads?”

“No, you as a boy.”

“You thought I was born thirty?”

“No, I thought you were born eighty. Be honest, have you ever uttered the phrase get off my lawn?”

“I have not. Though, over the past few weeks, I sure have wanted to utter the phrase get out of my house.”

I look quickly down, a little surprised at how much his comment stings. Not that it’s been any