together a lemony cream sauce. Three noodles slop onto the stove, and I wrinkle my nose, knowing it’ll only fuel his argument of me being a messy cook.
“I see no process here,” he says.
“That’s because you lack imagination. Get me a plate, would you?” I lick sauce off my thumb.
“A bowl might be better.”
“Oh my God, Walsh. Fine. Whatever makes you shut up.”
He goes to the cabinet and comes back with a bowl. No, two bowls.
I look up in surprise. “I thought you ate with Rebecca.”
“I did.”
“And this is what, second dinner?”
“I ate light. I wasn’t hungry before. Now I am.”
Understandable. I wouldn’t be hungry sitting across from that viper either.
And don’t go accusing me of being bitchy, because let me tell you, I have tried to give that woman a chance over the past couple of weeks since we’ve been back from our Hudson weekend. I’ve even worn my frumpiest outfits to reassure her I’m not a threat. I’ve dropped everything to get out of the apartment so they can have couple time the handful of occasions she’s come over.
I even asked if she wanted to grab a coffee or a glass of wine sometime, hoping that maybe if we got to know each other, she’d see that I’m not out to be a home-wrecker.
She told me, and I quote, “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
I do not like her. Any more than she likes me, apparently. But I pretend to for Colin’s sake, so I keep my mouth shut.
I’ve made plenty of pasta, so I dish up generous portions for each of us and carry them to the table, along with napkins and silverware.
“Anything to drink?” Colin asks.
“Yeah, sure.” I turn around, intending to go to the fridge. “Whoa,” I say, almost running into him because he’s right there.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He’s holding out a fancy little gift bag, the tall skinny shape a dead giveaway of what’s inside.
Sure enough, I pull out a bottle of Champagne.
I give him a puzzled smile. “Are we celebrating?”
“I thought we might. We made it past our halfway point.”
“Of what?” I ask, studying the bottle. I don’t know Champagne all that well, but I know this fancy-pants label wasn’t cheap.
“Halfway,” he repeats. “Of our prenup requirement. You moved in August twentieth. The prenup doesn’t stipulate it has to be three calendar months, which means we’re in the clear on November twentieth.” He taps the bottle and smiles. “That means we’re more than halfway through this mess.”
This mess.
“Wow,” I say, struggling to keep my smile on my face. “You certainly have those dates at the ready. Do you have all the key milestones marked on your calendar?”
“Well, yes,” he says, sounding puzzled. “Don’t you?”
I nod, because marking my calendar with the end date of this situation was one of the first things I’d done upon learning of my brother’s stupid trap. But honestly? I haven’t looked at it in weeks.
Colin, on the other hand, apparently has the dates memorized.
He frowns. “You don’t like the Champagne?”
“No, I do,” I say, tracing a finger over the label. “It’s just a bit jarring to realize that someone is counting down the days until they never have to see you again.”
“That’s not what I said. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
Someone has to—you’re not exactly great about putting your own words in your mouth.
“Will you have a glass with me?” I say, starting to move around him to put it in an ice bucket.
He reaches out and grabs my hand. “Charlotte, wait.”
For some reason, the touch makes the pain even more acute, and I look up to meet his gaze, trying mightily to keep the hurt out of my eyes, and not at all sure I’m succeeding.
“What?” I ask.
He says nothing.
His gaze drops to our joined hands, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he frowns, as though surprised to realize he’s touching me. His grip tightens ever so slightly as though wanting to pull me closer and fighting the urge.
Don’t fight it, I make a silent plea.
There’s something here—something between us that goes beyond a green card, my trust fund requirements, and a prenup. Every day that’s passed, every morning we share eggs and coffee, every time I manage to make him laugh, I’m more certain that Rebecca’s not the one for him.
Every day, I’m more desperate for him to see it.
“Charlotte—”
Remember a few weeks ago when we had an almost-moment, and the doorbell rang? Well, there’s a repeat. Except this time, it’s a phone