Chapter 15
brIGGS
Ilooked up at her, ready to argue that I needed my pen back, but the expression on her face stopped me cold.
She wasn’t amused. She was looking at me like I was some kind of kid with an annoying toy that she was keeping from me.
It was the expression on her face that kept me from snatching it from her hand.
She was exasperated. Frustrated. With me.
Like I hurt her feelings with my business talk.
But it was a business meeting.
“Talk?” I repeated. “About what?”
“Talk like people talk,” she said. “Does there have to be an agenda?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Briggs shrugged. “Look, you told me to figure this out. So I did.”
“And I appreciate that, but I would like to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve me signing my name to a legal document. I’ve known you four days and there have been two documents. Now three. That’s a lot.”
“Two.”
“No, we signed a marriage license. Three.”
She was right. My God. How many times was I going to be saying my wife was right over the next few months.
“Look,” I said, folding my hands on the table since I had nothing else to do with them. “I know I can get a little obsessed with the legal details.”
“A little?” She raised an eyebrow, still clutching my pen.
“Fine. A lot. But there’s a reason for that.
” I paused, not sure why I was about to tell her this.
I never told anyone this story. “When I first started working as one of Blackwell Couture’s attorneys, I missed a detail on a contract.
Small thing, really. A clause about international distribution rights that I thought was standard boilerplate. ”
“What happened?”
“It ended up costing the company three million dollars in legal fees and lost revenue.” The memory still made my chest tight. “My dad never said anything about it. Never blamed me. But I knew. I fucked up, and it cost my family money they shouldn’t have had to spend.”
Mandy’s expression softened. “Briggs, everyone makes mistakes. Especially when you’re new to a job. “
“I’ve never forgiven myself for that error,” I continued. “So now I’m ultra-careful. Triple-check everything. Make sure every detail is covered, every contingency planned for. It’s great in business.” I met her eyes. “But apparently it’s less great when trying to connect with new people.”
She was quiet for a moment, turning my pen over in her fingers. “I’m holding this hostage for the rest of the meal,” she finally said.
“What?”
“Your pen. It’s mine now. Can you survive that, or will your circuits malfunction?”
I stared at her. Was she serious? “It’ll be fine,” I lied.
Because the truth was, it did weirdly bother me that she had my pen.
I had a whole system. That pen was part of the system.
And not for nothing, but it wasn’t a basic Bic.
My father gave me that pen when I graduated law school.
A Montblanc with my name engraved. Yes, it was just a pen to most, but it did mean something.
I never left home without it. Signing my marriage contract seemed like a good time to use that pen.
But I wasn’t about to admit that out loud.
“You’re twitching,” she observed.
“I’m not twitching.”
“Your left eye is definitely twitching.”
I forced myself to relax, leaning back in my chair. Maybe I could order a glass of wine to take the edge off. The thought was barely formed before my stomach lurched violently at the mere idea of alcohol. Right. Water it was.
“Tell me something,” Mandy said, setting my pen down on her side of the table, well out of my reach. “What did you think when you woke up yesterday morning? Before you knew about the wedding.”
“That I was dying,” I admitted. “And that I deserved it.”
She laughed. “Same. I thought maybe I’d been poisoned.”
“By tequila.”
“So much tequila.” She shook her head. “I don’t even like tequila normally. I have no idea why I was drinking it.”
“Because I was drinking it,” I said, the memory suddenly surfacing. “You said something about matching my energy. Proving you could keep up.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh God, I did say that, didn’t I?”
“You did. And then you ordered shots for both of us.” More pieces were clicking into place. “You were very competitive about it.”
“Well, you were being all smug about your Viking drinking days or whatever.”
“I was not being smug,” I said, waving her comment away.
“So what do we do now?” she asked.
I glanced at the contract folder sitting between us. “We could discuss the terms. “
“Without the pen,” she interrupted. “And without the contract. Just talk to me, Briggs. Can you do that?”
I took a breath. This was harder than negotiating a million-dollar deal. At least with business, I knew the rules. I knew how to get what I needed.
But this? Talking to my accidental wife like a normal person? I was completely out of my depth.
“I can try,” I said finally.
“Good.” She settled back in her chair. “Then let’s start with the basics. Four months, right? That’s what you were thinking?”
“Yes. Long enough to make it believable, short enough to be manageable.”
“Logistics? I’m on the west coast and you’re east.”
Our appetizers were delivered. The stuffed mushrooms were calling my name.
“How about we table the discussion about those dirty details until after we’ve eaten?” she said. “I think I’m going to need a full stomach for that.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a small smile. “It might be best on an empty stomach.”
“Briggs Blackwell, did you just crack a joke?”
“We should probably exchange information,” I said, steering the conversation back to practical matters. “Phone numbers, addresses, emergency contacts. Basic stuff.”
“And we should probably learn things about each other. Favorite foods, pet peeves, that kind of thing. People will expect us to know those details.”
“I can make a questionnaire,” I offered.
She laughed. “Of course you can. But how about we just talk? Like we’re doing now. Get to know each other organically. I’m sure you’ve been on a date before, right?”
I scowled. “I have, but we’re married. We skipped the dating. Do you know how many hours it would take to get to know someone properly?”
“I’m not asking you to tell me about your first childhood pet or what you wore to your first day at kindergarten. I’m talking the basics.”
“A questionnaire would be more efficient,” I said, knowing it would annoy her.
“Briggs, if we’re going to pull this off, we need to be comfortable around each other. We need to be able to have normal conversations without everything being a business transaction.”
I knew she was right, but the idea made me uncomfortable. I didn’t do “organic.” I didn’t do casual getting-to-know-you conversations. I had a system for everything, a process. It kept things orderly, predictable.
Safe.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Favorite color. Simple question. No wrong answer. Except black. Or gray.”
“So, there is a wrong answer.”
She laughed. “Fine, if you tell me black or gray, I’ll accept it.”
“Blue. I think.”
“You think? You don’t know?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
She shook her head, smiling. “Okay. We’ll work on that one.”
“What’s yours?”
“Pink. All shades of pink, but especially that soft blush color. Makes me feel pretty.”
“You are pretty,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her cheeks flushed, and I felt my own face heat. Where the hell had that come from?
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “That was a very husband thing to say.”
Our entrees arrived, giving us something to focus on besides the weird tension that had suddenly filled the space between us.
“How did you get into wedding planning?” I asked.
Her whole face lit up. “I was in college, totally broke, working three part-time jobs just to make rent. My roommate’s best friend was getting married, and they had no money. Like, negative money. They were going to do city hall and maybe grab pizza after.”
I smiled despite myself. “Let me guess. You had other ideas.”
“I told them I could throw them a real wedding for five hundred bucks. They thought I was insane.” She laughed and shook her head.
“But I was determined. I hit up every thrift store in a fifty-mile radius. Found a gorgeous vintage dress for seventy-five dollars. Made the centerpieces out of mason jars and wildflowers we picked from a field. Convinced a friend who played guitar to do the music for free beer. Got another friend who was into photography to shoot it for practice.”
“And?”
“It was beautiful.” Her eyes went distant, remembering. “It was small. Maybe forty people in someone’s backyard. But it was full of love. You could feel it in every detail. The bride cried when she saw what we’d done. Said it was everything she’d dreamed of and more.”
“That’s when you knew?”
“That’s when I knew.” She took a sip of her water.
“Someone at the wedding took photos and posted them online. They went viral. People couldn’t believe we’d pulled it off for under five hundred bucks.
My phone started ringing. People wanted to book me.
And I just ran with it. I realized there was something I could do and I loved doing it. Made sense.”
I watched her as she talked, the way her hands moved when she got excited. This was what she’d been trying to tell me when I’d insulted her in that conference room. This wasn’t just a job to her. It was a calling.
“You love your job.”
“I do. I love seeing people in love. I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true.
Weddings are stressful. For the couple, for the families, and for everyone involved.
Brides are so focused on making the day perfect for themselves and their families they completely lose their minds.
But if I do my job right, that stress melts away, and what you’re left with is pure joy.
Families and friends coming together to celebrate something good.
Something hopeful.” She paused. “The world can be pretty dark sometimes. Weddings remind people that there’s still beauty and love and reasons to celebrate. ”
“That sounds nice,” I said. I realized after the word was out, it was very inadequate.
“What about your job? Do you love it?”
I considered the question. “I’m good at it.
And I believe in protecting my family’s interests.
But love?” I shook my head. “Most of my work is conflict. Business deals where everyone’s trying to get the biggest piece of the pie.
Lawsuits where someone feels they’ve been wronged.
Contracts designed to protect against the worst-case scenario.
It’s necessary, but it’s not exactly joyful.
I’m not defending an innocent man or winning a lawsuit for someone who’s been completely screwed over. ”
“Maybe that’s why you’re so serious all the time,” she said gently. “Your job is all about conflict and protection. You’re always in defense mode. Always anticipating the next problem.”
“You think my job is making me callous?”
“I think your job is making you forget that not everything is a battle. That sometimes people can just be kind to each other. Trust each other. Celebrate together without worrying about who’s going to screw who over.”
I smiled. “And that’s because you’ve never been screwed over. You have contracts you make your clients sign, right?”
“Yes.”
“One day, one of those contracts will be challenged and you’re going to wish you had a guy like me backing your ass up.”
She laughed. “Nice visual. I do have an attorney who created the contract. I trust him.”
“I’m sure you do, but I’m better.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you are, but fortunately, I’m not dealing with billion-dollar weddings.”
“Yet,” I said. “Stick with us and you just might.”
We finished our dinner, discussing mundane things that I supposed was part of the getting-to-know-you process. We walked out and I automatically felt my jacket pocket like I always did.
“You have my pen,” I said. “Can I have it back now?”
She flashed a smile. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it back?”
Is she flirting? No, she’s just fucking with me. “Are you going to sign the contract?”
“Which one?”
“I only brought the marriage one.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re just going to have to trust me. We’ll make it three months. I’m giving you time off for good behavior.”
“Three months?”
“Yep. Agree to that and I’ll partner with Blackwell.”
Then she held her hand out for me to shake.
“You’re crazy. No decent attorney would accept a handshake deal like that. I drew up a contract with clauses that protect both of us.”
“I’m not asking Briggs the attorney to shake my hand. I’m asking Briggs the man.”
There was no winning with this woman. And that suddenly made me feel very married.
“Fine,” I said and shook her hand. “But come for me and you’ll regret it.”
I ignored the softness of her hand in mine. Ignored the little jolts of electricity sizzling through me. It was fake. She didn’t like me and I didn’t like her.
“I’ll get us a ride,” I said.
“Let’s walk.”
“We’re at different hotels.”
“Mine is first. I want to walk the Strip.”
The second battle I’m going to lose. Or third. Shit, I don’t even know at this point.
“Fine.”
“Hold on,” she said and pulled out her phone.
She stood beside me and leaned in, holding her phone in front of us. “Smile, Husband.”