Chapter 19 #2
I stood up, collecting our coffee mugs. “Nope,” I said decisively. “We are in this now.”
“For better or worse,” she muttered.
“Till death or divorce do us part.” I paused at the French doors, looking back at her sitting at my table, like she belonged there. “Which, according to your timeline, should be in about three weeks.”
“Twenty-four days,” she corrected.
I turned the handle on the French doors just as the doorbell rang.
“That'll be Sam,” I said, watching her immediately transform from relaxed to rigid. “Try not to look like you're about to be interrogated by the FBI.”
“Is that not what's about to happen?”
I laughed. “Sam's more CIA. Much scarier.”
I headed through the house, her muttered “That's not reassuring.” following me.
Sam stood on my doorstep looking like she'd stepped out of the Shark Tank. Her blazer was so sharp it could cut glass, her tablet clutched to her chest, and her expression suggested she was already fed up with my shit this morning.
“Dallas.” She swept past me like a hurricane in Louboutins. “Please tell me she's here, coherent, and hasn't already posted about this on social media.”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”
“Morning was four hours ago.” She paused in my living room, scanning it. “Where is the bride?”
“Patio. And be nice, she's not used to having her life turned into a PR campaign.”
Sam forced a sarcastic smile. “Neither are you, apparently. Married.” She shook her head. “In all my years of cleaning up your messes, and there have been many…”
“Hey…”
“So many…”
“I get it…”
“Like, a truly staggering amount…”
“Sam.”
“This one takes the cake. Wedding cake, specifically.” She laughed at her own joke. “God, I'm hilarious when I'm stressed.”
I led her through to the patio, where Davina was now standing, looking like she was preparing for battle or possibly planning an escape route.
“Sam, meet…”
“The woman who finally got Dallas Dodger to say I do,” Sam interrupted, extending her hand with a smile. “Samantha Spencer. I manage Dallas's public image, which means I'm about to become your new best friend, worst enemy, or maybe both.”
They shook hands as they sized each other up.
“I listen to your podcast,” Sam said, settling into a chair. “I love all the body positivity.”
My wife relaxed. “You listen?”
“Research is my love language. Knowledge is my kink. Information is my…”
“We get it,” I interrupted. “You're thorough.”
“Which brings me to why I'm here.” Sam reached into her bag and produced a manila envelope thick enough to use as a weapon, and dropped it on the table.
“Postnup,” Sam corrected. “Since you've already made the decision to get married. Think of it as insurance for your temporary insanity.”
“It's unnecessary,” I said, shoving the envelope away. “We're both adults. We can handle this.”
“The same adults who got black out drunk and married in a Vegas chapel by…” Sam consulted her phone. “An Elvis impersonator.” Sam smiled. “But this isn't just about protecting Dallas. You have assets too. A successful podcast, your own brand…”
“Again,” I said firmly, “unnecessary. We're getting divorced in three weeks.”
Sam laughed. Not a polite chuckle or a professional giggle, but a full-bodied laugh. “Three weeks?” She wiped tears from her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. “If you divorce in three weeks, every tabloid from here to Tokyo will know this was fake. They'll destroy you both.”
“Then we fly to Vegas tonight…” Davina started.
“Too late.” Sam pulled up something on her tablet, turning it to face us. “These photos from Vegas are already circulating. It’s only a matter of time before this goes viral. We need to get ahead of it.”
On the screen was a blurry but definitely identifiable photo of us at the chapel, me with arms wrapped around her as I dipped her at the altar with her head thrown back in joy, probably just before I kissed her.
We looked... happy.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“Indeed.” Sam tucked the tablet away. “So you two better get comfortable with public displays of affection. Make this look real, or the media will eat you alive and pick their teeth with your bones.”
“That's graphic,” Davina said weakly.
“That's generous. The reality will be worse.” Sam tapped the envelope. “Six months minimum before you can even think about divorce. A year would be better.”
Our gazes collided, holding for a long minute. “A year?” We said in unison.
“Minimum six months,” Sam repeated firmly.
“The postnup includes a confidentiality clause.
Nothing too dramatic. You can talk about the marriage, obviously, that's the whole point.
But once it's over?” She made a zipping motion across her lips.
“Silent as the grave. It never comes out that this was arranged.”
We both stared at the envelope like it contained our death warrants.
“Also,” Sam continued, because apparently she wasn't done ruining our lives, “I've scheduled a photographer for your first date as husband and wife. Casual shots, nothing staged. We want organic romance, not prom photos. Think caught in a moment of genuine affection, not hostages trying to look happy.”
“We can do that,” I said.
“Can you, though?” Sam studied us. “Because right now, you're sitting three feet apart. You're supposed to be newlyweds. Drunk on love. Obsessed with each other.”
“We're... building up to that,” Davina said.
“Build faster.” Sam stood, then stopped abruptly, spinning back to face us.
“I'm updating your social status to married within the next three hours, along with a social media post. By tonight, everyone will know Dallas Dodger is off the market.
By tomorrow, you'll be America's most unexpected love story.”
She headed for the door, then paused. “Wait. Most important thing I haven't covered yet.” She set her bag back down, and my stomach dropped. Sam's most important things were never good news.
“You need a story,” she said, her tone shifting to deadly serious. “A believable, consistent story that you both know by heart. Every detail memorized. No contradictions, no hesitations.”
“A story?” Davina frowned. “We got drunk in Vegas and…”
“No.” Sam cut her off with a hand gesture sharp enough to slice bread. “That's what happened. That's not your story. Your story is what you tell your families, friends, and colleagues. The version that makes this believable, not a drunken mistake.”
She pulled out her tablet again, fingers flying across the screen.
“How long have you been dating? Where was your first date?
Who said ‘I love you' first? When did you know they were the one? These are questions people will ask, and if you stammer or contradict each other, even once, this whole house of cards collapses.”
“But we just tell them we've been keeping it quiet…” I started.
“Dallas.” Sam's look could have frozen hell. “Your mother is going to want to know everything. Her friends are going to interrogate you both at that party she's definitely throwing. One slip and suddenly it's all over social media that this is fake.”
“So what do we say?” Davina asked.
“That is for you two to figure out,” Sam said decisively. “Just make it believable.”
We exchanged glances.
“Love swept us away,” we said in unison.
Sam sighed so deeply I thought she might pass out.
“Work on it and remember no one can know the truth.
Not your best friend, not your sister, not your doorman, not your barista.
Nobody. It only takes one person who thinks they're helping by telling the real story to the wrong person, and boom.” She made an explosion gesture. “Career suicide for both of you.”
“Not even Brooke?” Davina asked, and the hurt in her voice was obvious.
“Especially not Brooke,” Sam said firmly.
“This is insane,” Davina muttered.
“This is damage control,” Sam corrected. “Now, both of you, tell me your story. How did you fall in love?”
I looked at Davina, then back at Sam. “We met through Brooke and Matt. Started talking at one of their dinner parties. She challenged everything I said, didn't fall for any of my usual charm…”
“That part's believable,” Davina interjected.
“And I realized I'd never met anyone like her,” I continued, surprised to find the words coming easily. “Smart, funny, called me on my bullshit. We started meeting for coffee, secretly. Then dinners. Then…”
“Then Dallas showed up at my podcast studio one night with takeout when I was working late,” Davina picked up the thread, and I tried not to look surprised at how smoothly she improvised. “Said he was just in the neighborhood, even though nothing is in that neighborhood.”
“And Vegas?” Sam prompted.
“Watching Brooke and Matt get married,” I said, looking at Davina instead of Sam. “Seeing how happy they were. I just... knew. Didn't want to wait anymore.”
“The chapel was my idea,” Davina added softly. “Because why wait for someday when you have today?”
The words felt too real for comfort.
Sam slow-clapped. “Better, but still needs work. Practice it until you can tell it in your sleep. Add details. What kind of takeout? What was she wearing on your first date? Make it real in your minds, and it'll be real to everyone else.”
She headed for the door, then paused, looking back with sympathy flickering across her face. “For what it's worth, you two look good together like a couple who'd either kill each other or die for each other, but never anything in between.”
“That's... sweet.” Davina forced a smile.
“That's marketable,” Sam corrected. “Remember, six months minimum, confidentiality forever, and for God's sake, look like you at least like each other. I've seen prisoners of war with more chemistry.” Her smile widened. “Oh, and get ready for red carpets and premiers. Dallas’s new movie releases soon.”
She swept out, leaving us in silence.
“So,” I said finally, “that went well.”
She picked up the postnup, weighing it in her hands. “Six months.”
“Minimum.”
“We're going to have to live together for six months.”
“Minimum.”
“Pretend to be in love for six months.”
“Minimum.”
She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “We're so screwed.”
“Minimum,” I agreed, and we both started laughing.
We’d basically spent all morning planning for nothing. Sam had swept in like a hurricane and destroyed all of it in her path.
“We should head over to your place,” I said. “Get what you’ll need for the next few months.”
This was going to be an interesting six months… Minimum.