Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“That’s crazy!” Linc looked over at Britt, who was nervously chewing on her thumb as she listened in on his call with the Nevada County Clerk’s office. “Exactly what evidence would you like us to come up with to prove we were ‘genuinely incapacitated by intoxication?’ A bar tab?”
“Sir, I understand your frustration.”
Sure you do.
“However, although NRS 125.330 states ‘want of understanding’ may be cause for an annulment, you still would be required to provide clear and satisfactory evidence to the court showing the lack of understanding and consent due to the intoxication.”
“You said that. So, what do you need as evidence?”
“I can’t advise that, sir. I’d suggest contacting an attorney. Perhaps they would be better able to answer that question.”
This is pointless.
“Great. Thanks for your help.” Linc disconnected the call.
Britt was watching him with those big, blue eyes of hers. “So, how do we prove it?” she asked, echoing his thoughts.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt. “No clue. We probably can’t. I mean, we got a license, so we obviously knew we needed one. Doesn’t really help prove lack of understanding.”
“Probably not,” she conceded. “Guess you’re changing your last name to ‘Callaway.’”
He laughed. How did she always manage to brighten his mood? “What’s wrong with ‘Pierce?’ It’s easier to spell.”
“You might have something there. People are always trying to stick an ‘o’ in my last name.”
“Not their fault you spell it wrong.”
She slapped his arm.
“It’s settled then. ‘Britt Amelia Pierce.’ Your monogram will be BAP.”
“Lovely.” Britt flopped her head against the back of the couch. “So, what happens now?”
He replaced his glasses and leaned back next to her. Dammit, he didn’t want to say it, but there was no way around it. “I think we have to get a divorce.”
“A divorce?” Her voice cracked on the word. “Oh, God.” She stood up and started pacing. “Momma’s gonna ring my neck!”
“Hey.” Linc pushed off the couch. “It’s okay.” He tried to corral her into a hug.
She evaded his arms. “No, this isn’t okay. Nothing about this is okay.”
“Zana…”
She turned to him. “I can’t get a divorce, Linc. You know how she reacted to Dex. She’ll disown me.”
“She won’t disown you.”
“You don’t know her,” she whimpered.
He pulled her close and tucked her head under his chin. “Yes, I do.”
“You’ve met her twice, and she was on her best behavior. You don’t know how scary Southern mommas can be when you cross them.”
“As scary as Southern daughters when you cross them?”
“Linc! I’m being serious.”
“How did you cross her?”
She pulled back to look up at him like he’d lost his mind. “I got married without her getting to plan a big lavish wedding, and now I have to get a divorce. Believe me, the gauntlet has been thrown.”
“We’ll figure something out.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “And we can stay married until we do.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking; I offered.”
“Linc, you’re sweet, but that wouldn’t be fair to you. It’s not like you proposed and I accepted. We can’t stay married. I don’t want to mess things up for you.”
“What things are you talking about exactly?”
“You know.” She pulled away from him and bent to pick up Maisie. The cat had been running figure eights around and between them since they’d stood up.
“Enlighten me.”
She widened her eyes and gave him a “seriously” look.
He stared right back at her and raised his brows. Seriously.
“Girls,” she stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“What about them?”
“Don’t you think having a wife might put a damper on your dating life?”
He almost laughed. “What dating life?” He didn’t date.
Not really. He’d maybe gone on two dates in the last year, and there’d never been enough interest on his part to see them a second time.
Aside from Emery, the only other woman he honestly spent time with, the only other woman he wanted to spend time with was Britt.
“I know you’re not dating anyone now, but what if you find someone you want to?”
What if I already have?
“Let me worry about that.”
“You shouldn’t have to, that’s the point.” She nuzzled her nose against Maisie’s neck. “Besides, you hate marriage.”
“I don’t hate marriage,” he assured her. “I hate what it does to people. I hate what they become when it falls apart.”
Great pep talk, Pierce. Why don’t you kick her cat while you’re at it?
“I don’t want you to hate me,” she whispered.
“Zana…” The fact she even considered that a possibility broke his heart. “I could never hate you.” He took Maisie and put her on the couch, then lifted Britt’s chin so she was forced to look at him. “Never in a million years. I love you, Zan. I could never hate you. Okay?”
It was true. He did love her. She was one of his best friends in the entire world. He’d do anything for her. Even stay married.
When she looked down, he dipped his head to again capture her gaze. “Okay?” he repeated.
When she finally nodded, he folded her back into his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of honeysuckle that clung to her hair. It never failed to have a calming effect on him. “We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”
“Okay,” came her feeble reply.
He steered her back to the couch and pulled her down next to him on the cushion.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what? You’ve nothing to apologize for.”
“For freaking out. Even when you told me not to.”
If it had been anyone else reacting the way she just had, he would have thought they were either being melodramatic or faking it. But he knew Britt too well. Plus, he’d met the woman in question. Lacey had that maternal Southern-guilt thing down pat.
“Since when do you do what I tell you to?”
A smile teased the corners of her lips. “Mostly never.”
He chuckled. “I rest my case.”
“We can’t tell anyone we’re married, okay?” Her expression looked like she was channeling Puss in Boots from Shrek. “Not until we figure out what to do.”
“Fine,” he huffed dramatically. “Make me your dirty little secret.” It was a lot more tempting than it should have been to refrain from adding “please” onto the end of that comment.
She smacked him in the gut.
Laughing, he rubbed his stomach. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“A divorcée at twenty-seven. My life’s goal realized.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-six and a half.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. And like I told you, we don’t have to do anything yet.”
“I know, but…” She frowned.
“But what?”
“We should probably at least look into it, right? You know, to see what has to be done.”
When she didn’t say anything further, he clarified, “To get a divorce?”
She nodded, thumb caught between her teeth. If she kept biting it, the poor thing was going to be beet red. He hated to see her so stressed.
“Tell you what,” he offered. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll find out the process. Just so we know, okay? But I mean it. We don’t have to do anything yet.”
He shifted to his side to see her better, pulling off his glasses so they didn’t dig into his temple.
He couldn’t wear contacts thanks to Johnny Hall scratching his cornea with a fingernail when they’d been wrestling in fifth grade.
He hadn’t done it on purpose, but it had left scar tissue, nonetheless.
Now, anytime Linc tried to wear contacts, it felt like sand was underneath them.
Emery told him he should get LASIK, and maybe he would someday.
It just had never been a top priority. Glasses weren’t that much of a pain.
“I know.” Britt rolled to her side to face him, mirroring his pose. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Again.” God, she was pretty.
She was stunning with makeup on and was a master of the smoky eye look—according to Emery, that was a thing—but he preferred her how she was right now: flawless, fair skin and no makeup other than a light sweep of mascara.
He’d always thought Britt had the coolest eyes.
They were a deep blue with faint copper flecks closer to the iris, like hidden treasure buried in the middle of the ocean.
Her hair was the color of spun honey with at least four different natural shades mixed in ranging from wheat gold to soft caramel.
It hung loosely past her shoulders, except for the part that was stuck on the couch cushion above her, since she’d turned to face him without lifting her head. He could stare at her all day.
“Would you rather…” he began.
“Oh, here we go.”
“...be stranded in a rowboat in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, or stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on highway forty-four, trapped behind a tractor going fifteen miles an hour when the speed limit is fifty-five?”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“Answer the question.”
“Ocean,” she replied instantly.
“Wow, no hesitation there.”
“Nope. At least, I’d be at the ocean. I was stuck behind a tractor yesterday and it sucked. They need their own roadways.”
“That’s all we need,” he groaned. “More construction around here.” He swore that half the time the highway district worked on a street, they tore it up again three months later to do something else. Nothing like creating your own job security.
She gasped. “Bite your tongue!”
I can think of better things to do with my tongue.
Don’t go there.
“Don’t even joke about more construction,” she scolded. “That’s like saying ‘Macbeth’ in a theatre or leaving a rocking chair rocking.”
“I’ve heard the Macbeth thing,” he confessed. “And not saying ‘good luck’ before someone goes on stage, but isn’t a rocking chair supposed to rock? It’s kind of in the name, Zan.”
“Not if you’re not sitting in it,” she said, her expression and tone implying even a toddler would know better.
Must be another one of her Southern things.
He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I stand corrected.”
“You’re actually sitting,” she pointed out, “so…”
Smartass.
“But thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Promise, I’ll never sit in a rocking chair again. Unless it’s not rocking.”
“That’s not what I meant. Anyway, thank you for putting up with my earlier freak out.”
“I’ve gotten used to it with you,” he teased.
Even though she rolled her eyes, he could tell she was trying not to grin. “Jerk.”
“Guilty.” He turned his palm up on the couch cushion. When she automatically slipped her hand into his, it was like a weight lifted, allowing him to breathe easier. Thank God, their friendship was still good.
Only problem was, after finding out they’d slept together, his private fantasies were backed by reality now, which meant he was basically fucked.
How the hell was he supposed to go back to being just friends when all he could think about was wanting a redo of their night together, only this time, with fully sober, crystal-clear clarity?