19. Hurricane in Louboutin’s #2
“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.