Page 49 of Hate You More

His gaze narrows. “Ominous.”

“What is?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you sit still for weeks. You’re giving me the heebie-jeebies. Spit it the fuck out, whatever it is.”

“I need you to draft me a prenup.”

“Quit fucking around. What do you really want?”

“For you. To draft. Me. A prenup.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. He turns his head and glances out of the window, then back again. “Troy? Blink once if you’re in danger.”

“How about once if I am and twice for I’m really getting hitched?” A double blink. I really am getting hitched. For at least six months.

“Have you impregnated one of your supermodels?” Do I detect a note of panic in Max’s voice? Unusual.

“Yeah.” I glance over my shoulder. “Her daddy is at the door with his shotgun.”

“Do me a favor? Smile for me.” I flash him my teeth instead. “Lift your arms.”

With a protracted sigh, I make chicken wings. “Can’t smell burning toast neither,” I add heavily. “Are you gonna help me, or do I need to find outside counsel?”

“Yeah, you need a family attorney. Preferably someone who specializes in matrimony and prenups. But, fuck, you are commitment averse—the least marriage-minded person I know. Well, excluding me. And maybe Hannah.”

“Not Hugh?”

“Nah, he’s just dying for the whole white picket fence. He just has to date a woman long enough for her to propose.” He gives a pause as he studies me. “Really?”

“Really. Tomorrow. No invitations, no party. It’s a courthouse thing.”

“Nah.” He presses both palms to his desk. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I am not.” Even if I wish I were.

“Wait.” He suddenly straightens, and my gut tenses in reflex. “This is about her, isn’t it? The girl.”

“It is about a girl. How long have we known each other? It can’t be that much of a surprise to you that I’m into vaginas.”

“It’s the one Hannah was talking about.”

“Hannah was talking about a vagina?”

“The woman from the party, from the past.”

“Hannah doesn’t know shit,” I mutter.

“Oh, she knows. And she remembers. Everything.”

“Whatever the fuck that means.”

“So Page Six got it right.” Like a dog with a scent, he goes down the wrong hole. “Unless Page Six also got it wrong.” The dog backtracks. Self-corrects.

“I hope you don’t have dreams of joining New York’s finest because that is some terrible detective work.” My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Clara, and I try to ignore what a head fuck it is, seeing her name flash up on the screen. I type out a quick answer. “Whatever Page Six got right or wrong isn’t worth shit,” I add. “And I’d prefer to keep the prenup in house. No outside counsel.”

“Sorry, I was wrong. That was the statement that’s ominous. What was her name again?”

“So maybe Hannah doesn’t know everything.”