CHAPTER NINE RIGGS

CHAPTER NINE

RIGGS

Two days after Cocksucker fled the country, my future wife informed me that she’d booked us an appointment with a family lawyer.

“What do we need a family lawyer for?” I asked, cleaning my photography equipment on her coffee table. I used a rocket blower to remove dust from the lens. “We’re not even married yet. Even I think getting a divorce is a little premature.”

She was running like a headless chicken around the apartment, scrubbing every surface five times.

“To sign our prenuptial agreement, of course.” Duffy smiled apologetically, her cheeks turning pink. “Please don’t take this to heart, and I say that with no prejudice at all, but I assume you and I aren’t in the same financial situation.”

I put my camera down, turning my full attention to her. “No,” I agreed. “I can guarantee that you and I aren’t in the same economic group.”

She rocked on her heels, her expression awash with relief. “Which is fine. Money’s not an incentive for you.”

“It isn’t,” I confirmed. “And you’re a gold digger.”

“If you want to call it that.” She hitched a shoulder up. “I worked quite hard for my savings—”

“How much savings are we talking about, exactly?” I cut through what I imagined was a prepared, ruthlessly boring speech.

She hesitated, then finally swallowed. “I have twenty-five thousand dollars in savings, give or take.”

I whistled low. “And you said you couldn’t pay me for the visa.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t!” Her mouth went slack with horror. “Some of it is tied up in bonds, the rest in stock. And this place is horrifyingly expensive. My parents are skint, and even if they weren’t, I would never ask them for a penny. I still have to find a new job and—”

I raised my hand to stop her. “Calm down, I don’t want your money.”

Her shoulders relaxed, and she propped the broom against her counter. “Cheers.”

“But I’m not going to sign the prenup either,” I deadpanned.

If there was logic behind my decision, I couldn’t find it. In fact, I knew that if Christian and Arsène found out that I was marrying this girl without an ironclad prenup, they’d kill me themselves, making her the sole beneficiary of everything I owned.

What they wouldn’t understand was that in order to sign a prenup with Duffy, I’d need to declare my funds and possessions, and I didn’t want her to know I was rich. She’d try to become my girlfriend for real, maybe even my wife, and there was nothing I wanted less than more Daphne Markham in my life. Especially since she’d actually be my wife.

Yes, Duffy and I had had one amusing conversation the night she’d dropped Cocksucker off at the airport—was his ass too precious to get a taxi like the rest of humanity?—but other than that, all evidence pointed toward the woman trying to marry her way up.

“You won’t?” she asked, picking up the broom again and sweeping ardently. “Why?”

“Because”—I angled my camera sideways, using a LensPen to remove residual dust—“a relationship should be built on trust.”

“But we don’t have a relationship.”

“We do,” I said around the unlit joint in my mouth. “It’s just not romantic.”

“I don’t think I could ever trust you.”

“Don’t marry me, then.”

“Bloody hell, you know I must.” She made a face and swept harder while staring at the floor, like Cinderella. “You’re not going to ask for half my money, right? I really can’t afford .?.?. I mean, even if BJ did ask me to marry him afterward .?.?.”

Unbelievable. She was still banging that old drum, even after everything he’d done to her. He’d flown to the other side of the motherfucking world when she needed him the most. How money obsessed was this chick?

“No prenup,” I maintained, resolute. “This is our trust fall. You have to trust me, and I have to trust you.”

“Trust me with what?” she cried out. “You don’t even own an iPad!”

“There’s more to life than money.” Even though I lived by this motto, I also knew it was a provocative thing to tell a working-class go-getter. I sounded like those zen Bitcoin billionaires who thought they were spiritual because they grew a beard and did goat yoga on Pfeiffer Beach.

Duffy tucked the broom into her storage space. “If that’s the case, then tell me what you gain from marrying me. Yes, you said you want to stay in New York for your job, but why don’t you want to do this task you’re dreading?”

“If I tell you, would you drop the prenup discussion?” I sighed.

She hesitated before nodding.

“Alaska,” I said.

“Pardon?” She frowned.

“Alaska. My boss wanted me to move there for eight months for this documentary project. I don’t like Alaska. Well, I’ve never been, but I never plan to either. Apparently, the only reason he insisted on my going was because I’m not tied down to New York. No family, no partner. I needed a responsibility.”

“Why do you hate Alaska so much?”

“That’s another story, for a much drunker time.”

She stared at me wordlessly, and for the first time in my life—in my entire years of goddamn living—I felt genuinely seen. It was exhilarating and terrifying and, above all, fucking weird. I filled the silence with more words.

“The drawback is I’m supposed to stick around here for a few months. I’ve never done that before.”

“You’ve never stayed in the same place for a few months at a time?” she asked from the other side of the room.

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Another story, for another drunken time.”

“Do you drink to tackle uncomfortable situations often?” She frowned in concern.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I clarified.

“An alcoholic usually doesn’t admit to being one,” she pointed out. “At any rate, I’m the same. I love a good drink. And I also love a not-so-good one, if I’m in a bad mood.”

“You might be able to hold a drink in.” I rose up to my feet and picked up my jacket and wallet. “But I’m an actual expert. It took years of unaddressed emotional instability, daddy and mommy issues, and deep denial to get to where I am today.” I patted my torso.

“You’re not the sole proprietor of being damaged,” Duffy said with a sad smile. “I’ll have you know, I drink my problems away too. ’Tis the English way.”

Speaking of English, her throaty voice and sexy accent were doing weird things to my libido. I think they reverted it back to my adolescent years, because the only thing I could think of around her was sex.

“Yeah, well. Bet I can outdrink you with one liver tied behind my back.” I shouldered into my jacket.

“Rubbish!” she bellowed. “I can drink you under the table.”

“I can drink and eat you under the table.”

I paused, realizing it didn’t sound good. Or, more accurately, it sounded very good, but by the way her skin turned crimson, Duffy didn’t want my mouth anywhere near her Bermuda Triangle.

“Not that, I’d never do that.” I cleared my throat. Shit. Now I couldn’t unsee the mental image of me going down on her, slurping her juices like they were a sundae. “I meant, in terms of food—”

“Food. Yes. I love food!” She grabbed her broom for the millionth time, still sweeping the same spot. “Do you like food too? You must, I suppose. You’re quite the big guy .?.?.” She faltered.

“I’m glad the eyeful at Gretchen’s impressed you.”

“Not big like that!” She was pale with horror now. “And, of course, I haven’t peeked. I mean, I don’t doubt that you are. Everything else about you is, well .?.?.”

I cocked one eyebrow, daring her to continue. She moaned, slapping her hands over her eyes.

This was painful. And awkward. And hilarious. Everything we said sounded sexual.

“What I meant was your height .?.?. and width .?.?.” She pantomimed with her hands. “Dear God, I feel like I’ve just taken my mouth on a test drive and I can’t find the brakes on the thing.”

“Just pull the hand brake,” I said with a laugh.

Her eyes dropped to my crotch.

“Not that hand brake, Duffy.”

“Oh, bugger,” she moaned, dragging her hands over her face. “Who even am I?”

I couldn’t believe this conversation had started with a prenup. I could also believe she was capable of being fun if she just abandoned her six-ton reservations and prim-and-proper-lady act at the door.

“I’m gonna go now.” I pointed at the door, like there was any doubt I would leave through there and not, I don’t know, the fucking window.

“Sure. Right. Marvelous idea,” she chirped. “Have a good day. I mean”—she glanced at her watch—“afternoon, I guess. It’s my last day at WNT tomorrow. I need to prepare, and there’s no redemption for me in this conversation.”

“Anyway. So. No prenup.”

“No prenup.” She made a Scout’s honor sign with her fingers. “But no taking my money either.”

“I’ll try to resist temptation.”

“Are you coming to see Mrs. Zimmerman with me?” She meant the lawyer Christian recommended to us.

“Yeah. Of course. We’re in this together.”

“Right. Right.”

We stood like this for a few more seconds.

Leave, you idiot. Did you forget how to use your feet? They climbed mountains for you.

Finally, I turned around and padded to the door. Practically ran to the stairway. When I got to the first floor, I heard a door open. Duffy burst out, gripping the banisters and peering down at me.

“Riggs! Wait!”

I looked up. Her face was the color of bubble gum. I was feeling funny, too, in a way I couldn’t describe.

“You forgot your mobile.” She reached down to hand it to me.

Our fingers brushed for a nanosecond. It was brief, but enough for me to feel how velvety and soft her skin was. Was she like that all over? I’d never find out.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

But she didn’t leave the stairway, and neither did I. Not until her phone rang from inside the apartment.

What the fuck was going on with me today?