Chapter 20
20
Cate
“I’m here to see Mr. Whittier,” I say, whispering to the receptionist. “I have a meeting scheduled. We were caught on the elevator. Long story short, we’re late.”
She checks us in, and we follow her down the hall to the conference room. I stay close, needing to get my head off Shane and into the divorce game we’re about to play. The proximity of his presence caresses my backside, which I swear I didn’t imagine until my feet falter, and his hand keeps him from running into me.
When I peek over my shoulder, his eyes are still set on mine, but the smile he used back in the elevator is nowhere to be found. It hits me like a ton of bricks. He’s the hunter. I’m the prey. The receptionist opens the door to the lion’s den.
I thought I was ready, but I’m immensely unprepared for what I assumed was a simple meeting. It’s not. Files and envelopes are lined up on the table, each side guarding theirs like secrets will be revealed. I look back at Shane once more, and whisper, “You’re not asking for anything, right?”
He stops shy of pressing against my arm, but the high-quality fabric of his shirt is soft against my skin. “I never said that.”
“But I did, so I assumed you wouldn’t.”
The blue of his eyes pierces me, and under his breath, he says, “We’re already late.” The hint is taken, so I lean against the door to let him by.
A million things run through my mind. I shared that I had lost the earnest money with the house but never spent the down payment. Shane saw my apartment. It’s not exactly the lap of luxury, though I love it. He knows my car is older than Galileo, so what could he possibly want of mine?
I sit next to my attorney across from Shane and his attorney, who really looks like an asshole ready to take me to the cleaners. Max Whittier is jovial by nature, which is one of the reasons I’ve worked with him on little matters like a fender bender where the guy didn’t want to pay up. Divorce is no joke. I need a viper to take on this snake.
Max introduces his colleague, Sheila Rick, and Shane’s attorneys. Looking at me, he says, “This is highly unusual.”
“That’s not a good start.” I shoot Shane a look that pins him to the chair he’s relaxing in.
“It doesn’t mean bad, but this is not a way my firm typically operates.” Planting the tips of his fingers on the large manila envelope, he drags it across the table closer to him. “We’ve been asked to unseal the requests in the presence of everyone. We’ll negotiate here at the table. If at any time we need a mediator, we can pause to bring one in to hopefully reach a successful conclusion to this marriage agreement.”
Funny how neither of us ever agreed to this marriage, but here we are on opposing sides of a large wooden conference table suddenly fighting for . . . what? Assets I don’t have? Motherfu?—
“We weren’t aware of any prior requests,” Sheila says, directing her attention across the table. “Are these terms and conditions?”
“We didn’t have any,” I add. “No terms, and we definitely didn’t discuss any conditions.” I look back at Max. “I’m only requesting the divorce. I’m not after his money.”
“This is highly unorthodox,” he says, shifting a glare to the opposing attorney. When he turns back to me, he pats my arm. “We do not have to accept any offers, Cate, and we can fight any claims. If, at any point, you’re uncomfortable, we can consult in my office. But let’s see what they’re claiming as their share of the marital property.”
“Marital property?” My jaw hits the table as I try to burn Shane alive with one hard glare. How dare he!
Shane says, “I’m not asking for any property.”
“Good, because you know I don’t have any. I lost the house?—”
“I know, Cat.” He’s too restrained, leaving me no emotions to riffle through. He’s not like the man I spent time falling for and nothing like the boy I once knew. There’s no familiarity with the person in front of me now except the exterior, and he has his parents to thank for that.
“Then what could you possibly want from me? My 2012 Toyota with dodgy air-conditioning? Spousal support off my salary? What? What is it?”
His attorney whispers, and they both go quiet.
I roll my eyes. Screw this whole situation. I’m done, and we’ve barely started.
Max opens the file and immediately shifts it between him and his colleague, studying it like they’re about to be tested. I cross my arms over my chest to keep my anger at bay and my heart contained as it tries to escape. I knew it couldn’t be trusted around him.
As my attorneys consult each other, I can’t stop myself from replaying everything Shane said in the elevator, landing back on the ending that was never finished. Lowering my arms to my sides, I lean closer to the table, my eyes locked on his, and ask, “What were you going to say in the elevator? What do you want?”
His expression breaks, the man I knew last August returning, even if only for the briefest of seconds. “I want more time?—”
“You’re requesting time with my client?” Max asks, holding the paperwork in his hands. He flattens it on the table and points midway down. “Seventy-two hours. Is that correct?”
Shane’s attorney states, “Everything is listed on page two. No other requests or obligations will be required.”
I turn to Max. “What does that mean, he’s requesting time?”
He blows out a long breath, his eyes still analyzing the text. When he turns to me, he replies, “The divorce will be granted after the agreed upon seventy-two hours.” Shooting a look at Shane’s attorney, he adds, “This is bordering on extortion, which is illegal in every state in the U.S.”
I can’t stop from looking at Shane as if he’ll explain instead of being interrupted. When he doesn’t continue, I ask Max, “I have to spend seventy-two hours with him to get cut loose from this sham of a marriage?”
“He has requested your company for . . .” He swivels his chair in my direction and speaks slower like I can’t keep up, which I can’t, it seems. “A period of three days or seventy-two hours, whichever works best for your schedules.”
“ Our schedules?” I sound like an idiot, but surely, I’m hearing this wrong or not understanding the legal jargon or something because this sounds a lot like . . . can’t be . I hold my hand up between us. “I hate to go in circles, but what do you mean by my company?”
Max looks across the table at Shane and his attorney, and says, “Again, this is highly unusual and barely legal, but I do have to advise you that an effort to work on the marriage looks better when you go before the judge to ask for the divorce. Most want to know that the parties made every attempt to stay together in cases of irreconcilable differences.”
“And many have been saved,” his attorney says, “by spending time together.”
“I . . . um . . .” Still struggling to understand why Shane would even want this when he’s moving on with someone else, I close my gaping mouth since my throat is going dry, clear it, and say, “We’re not really married?—”
“You are, Mrs. Faris,” his attorney states so boldly.
“Farin. My last name is Farin.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Farin?—”
“Ms.” The gall of this man . . . and the one beside him . I shoot Shane a glare I hope rattles his bones.
The attorney, undeterred as if the name game was planned from the beginning, continues, “Are you prepared to stand before a court under oath and declare you made every effort to save your marriage, Ms. Farin?”
“Yes,” I say without a second thought. No debate. No doubt at all. I don’t know Shane from Mr. Rosen, and I’m not marrying him. Okay, I can admit I know him better than my patients—the real him he showed in the privacy of my apartment right before he revealed his true self in that heated argument. Shifting my eyes to the man himself, I take a breath, then ask, “Why are you doing this? Please just sign the papers.”
“I’ll take forty-eight,” he says, his interest shifting into a higher gear. Oh now he’s all hands on deck instead of leaving it to his weaselly attorney to do his dirty work.
“So now you want less time with me?” I cross my arms over my chest, utterly offended that I’m being negotiated like a cow on the sale block.
Shane leans forward. “Forget everyone else, Cat. I want time with you.”
“You had it and blew it.”
“Give me another chance. I’ll take anything you’ll give me. I want a chance to get to know you, a chance to know my wife before we divorce.”
I scoff. “Wife? That’s rich, like you, yet I didn’t make one request of you despite all that.” I was softening until he threw that out like he did our relationship.
He says, “Make one. Right now. I’ll give you anything you want.”
Enticing, but I can’t be bribed. “Unlike you, Shane, I didn’t come here with any intention of making demands. That’s all anyone ever does of you. I was giving you the opposite—your freedom.”
“You don’t have to be such a saint.” My head jerks from the audacity of this man while he continues, “If you want something, just ask.”
“I’m not something . I’m a person who you’re requesting.” Resting my hands calmly on the table in front of me, I push through the shock and gather myself back together. “I have a life, a career, friends who are waiting to have margaritas with me to celebrate my divorce?—”
“Celebrate?” He looks away, his gaze distancing through the window as the reality of what we are hits him like it did me last August when he walked out my door.
The tension in the room is so thick that the attorneys appear uncomfortable. The squeak of a chair across from me pulls my eyes back to Shane. I once saw sadness in his blue eyes, but this is deeper, causing my own heart to squeeze. Vulnerability is rare for a man of his stature, fame, and wealth. Shane Faris wears his heart on his sleeve for me, but why? “I’m asking for one chance to show you who I am.”
“No, you’re asking for two days.”
“I’ll take a day, a lunch, an hour. Fuck, another elevator ride?—”
“I’ll pass on the last part.” My heart starts thumping in my chest again, my throat tightening as my emotions well in my eyes. I hate the unknown clouding truth with fiction, so I ask, “Are you marrying someone?”
“No,” he replies without hesitation. “I’m already married.”
Is it the words he said or the emotions he’s showing me? It’s both, and I believe him. I look down at the papers once more, not knowing why I’m even considering this. “If I give you the forty-eight hours, you’ll sign the papers?”
“I already have. So even if you change your mind on the time together, all it will take is your signature to file.”
He gave me the power before we walked in here. What do I do with that information? I keep my eyes on the documents, needing to be clear with my understanding before making a final decision. Will spending time together really make it easier to walk away from each other?
Maybe this is what we both need. Proof in real time that we’d be terrible together. His chance to say what he needs to get off his chest. Closure for me.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. One of the worst ideas I’ve ever had comes to mind. I ask myself, what would Luna do? What do I want to do? I look up, doubting the words even as they come out of my mouth. “You have forty-eight hours. That’s it. You better make the most of it.”
“I won’t disappoint you.”
“This isn’t about me, Shane. This is about you.” I turn to my attorneys and say, “I’ll agree to the amended terms on one condition of my own.”
“Anything.” Shane’s winning smile makes quite the appearance, then it stumbles. “What is it?”