The Prenup - Lauren Layne Page 0,1
be on the East Coast. I feel my sleek blowout transforming into a poufy cloud with each passing moment. Thankfully, the hotel lobby is cool and dry, and I want nothing more than to check in to my room and make a hot date with a bottle of wine and a shower.
A glance at my cell phone tells me there’s no time for that. The luggage debacle and traffic have already made me ten minutes late for my, shall we say, appointment.
I leave my suitcase and trench coat with the bellman to be taken to my room, and ask for directions to the restroom. I may not have time for a shower, but some occasions at least require a lipstick check, and this is definitely one of them.
A glance in the restroom mirror confirms that I’m a good deal beyond a simple lipstick check. At least half my mascara is under my eyes, and my lipstick is long gone, though my lip liner has managed to stick around in a very unbecoming manner. And as expected, the humidity-induced frizz is simply gorgeous.
A damp paper towel takes care of the mascara, a couple dabs of concealer hide the fact that I haven’t had much sleep since getting The Call, and by the time I apply ChapStick and a swipe of light pink lip gloss, I feel mostly human.
Even better, the hotel is fancy enough to have complimentary mouthwash, and I pour some into the provided little cup, gargling as I pull my long hair into an intentionally messy bun. When you’ve survived three decades with naturally curly hair, you learn that sometimes the best method is to pretend that the frizz is deliberate and work with it, Carrie Bradshaw style.
I spit and rinse, then dig through my Prada purse—a thirtieth-birthday gift to myself from yours truly—until I find some much-needed eye drops and a lint roller, which go a long way to diffuse the just got off a cross-country flight look. A spritz of perfume to combat the onion-eating neighbor.
I’d purposely selected the blue dress I’m wearing because it’s made out of some wrinkle-free material I like to call magic, so at least my wardrobe’s on point. And now, for the final touch: I reach into the bottom of my purse, groping around until I find the stilettos carefully wrapped in their fancy Stuart Weitzman shoe bags. Yeah, I’m that girl, the one with fancy shoes in her purse. I love a good pair of sexy high heels, just not for walks over four blocks or the airport security line. Thus, I am a master of The Shoe Swap.
I slip my feet out of the gray flats, into the gray suede peep-toe stilettos, and voilà. I’m ready.
Or as ready as one can ever be for this.
I’m also late. Quite late. Crap.
I hurriedly put my makeup and the flats back in the purse, do one last smoothing of the flyaway hairs by my temples, and head toward the hotel bar. Like the rest of the hotel, the bar’s fancy and dimly lit. It’s not until I’m scanning and coming up empty that I realize …
I don’t know what the guy I’m meeting looks like.
I mean, I know what the version of him ten years ago looked like. Long, curly black hair, pulled back into a man bun before man buns were even a thing. I scrunch up my nose, trying to remember other details. He’d been long and lean, almost coltish. Full, dark beard. Not my type at all, truth be told, but to give credit where it was due, I do remember that he had very nice eyes. They were light blue with thick, those-can’t-be-real black eyelashes.
The trouble is, the bar is far too dark to see anyone’s eye color, so I’m at a bit of a loss. I scan the room and come up empty. My palms get a little sweaty, and I hope he didn’t leave because he thought I’d stood him up. I scan the room again, slower this time.
Get-a-room couple in the corner? Nope. Group of girls laughing shrilly next to them? No. Not the elderly couple either, nor the business meeting that looks to be two glasses of wine past productive. It’s definitely not the single lady reading her book, nor the two dolled-up cougars on the prowl.
There’s a man with his back to me who has the right hair—longish and black, although he seems a bit shorter than I remember … the man turns his