Stone Cold, page 10
Her mouth presses firm and she nods. “Yeah. I have.”
“I thought you were happy with Jude?”
“I was,” she says. “He was fun. And charming. And aside from the way things went down, being with him was easy—if that makes sense? When we broke up, deep down, the tiniest part of me was actually relieved.”
I’m relieved hearing that.
“This is going to sound silly,” she continues, “but I always felt like you and I had more in common than Jude and me.”
It doesn’t sound silly at all—it’s the truth.
“But you were so distant,” she adds. “Every once in a while, I felt like you noticed it too. But looking back, I’m pretty sure it was all in my head.” Jovie takes another sip. “Wishful thinking maybe.”
“Wishful thinking?” I heard her perfectly clear—I just want to hear her elaborate.
Her cheeks flush.
“I … I think I … kind of … had a crush on you back then …” Jovie buries her face in her palm before peering at me between her fingers.
“You think you did?” I ask. “Or you did?”
“It was innocent.” She sits straighter. “I never would’ve acted on it. And honestly, this is the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud. But yeah, there was something about you that always made me wonder … anyway, now that I’m a little older, a little wiser, with a few more years behind me, I think it comes down to what you said before.”
“What did I say before?”
“That I have terrible taste in men,” she says. Her eyes widen. “No offense to you personally … you’re just incredibly emotionally unavailable and I think there’s something about that that drives women crazy.”
“Is that so?”
“Take a few of my bestselling books, for example. They all have one thing in common. The hero always has a heart colder than the Arctic ocean and the heroine is always the only one who can melt his icy exterior. He won’t change for anyone except her—and at the very essence of the story, that’s what makes him so swoony.”
“Interesting observation.”
“Anyway.” She waves her hand. “We’ve gotten way off track here. We’re supposed to be talking about you. Let’s go back to square one… have you ever been in love?”
“Once,” I say without hesitation.
Jovie’s brows arch, and her face turns crestfallen for half of a moment.
“Good for you,” she says. “Is she still in the picture?”
I’m looking at her …
“Yes and no.” I top off her glass, then mine. “It’s complicated.”
“Nine times out of ten it isn’t though,” I say. “It’s only complicated because we make it complicated. Love is almost always quite simple. Either it’s there or it’s not.”
“That may be the case for most, but not for all.”
“So who is she?” Jovie asks. “What’s she like? Tell me about the woman who finally melted Stone Atwood’s heart.”
“I’d rather not,” I say. “It’s kind of a sore subject at the moment.”
More like excruciatingly painful. The only woman I’ve ever loved just confessed that she used to wonder about me, used to innocently crush on me …
I never expected life to be fair, but this is downright cruel.
“Ah, I see.” Before she can ask another pointed question, her phone rings from her bag. Digging it out, she frowns at the screen. “It’s Monica. You remember Monica, right?”
“Monica Yarbrough,” I say.
“It’s Monica Wiest now, but yes,” she says. “Hang on. I need to take this … hey, Mon … what’s up?”
Sliding off the bar stool, she walks into the next room—my pitch-black study. I turn my attention to Domino, who is sitting near my feet, staring up at me with shiny dark eyes.
“You want more steak?” I grab a piece from the container on the counter. He lifts a paw before licking the drool from his lips. I toss it to him because I’m not about to almost lose a finger again, and he catches it in his mouth. “Impressive.”
“Sorry about that,” Jovie says when she returns. “She’s going through a thing with her husband right now … I should probably go be with her …”
“Of course.” I hide my disappointment at the fact that I was enjoying her company, as bittersweet as it was.
“Thank you again for taking Domino.” She slides her bag over her shoulder before clasping her hands together. “Seriously. You’re a godsend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I nod. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter. Her call was frantic and convincing—and I wanted to see her again.
“I’ll reach out to you after the weekend,” she says when I walk her to the door. “Ida’s supposed to be back early next week. Call or text if you need anything.”
With a quick wave, she dashes down my front steps and climbs into her car.
I return to the kitchen to finish the last of the Malbec.
Her confession plays on a loop in my head the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stone
* * *
Age 21
* * *
“I put your mail on the counter.” Jovie peeks her head into my room. It’s been five days since Jude fucked around on her, and I’ve yet to be able to look her in the eye once. Watching the two of them prance around the apartment—flirting and grabbing each other’s asses and stealing kisses—all the while knowing what happened … is weighing heavily on my mind.
“Thanks,” I say from my desk, keeping my back to her.
“We’re ordering Chinese tonight.” She’s still here. “Did you want the usual?”
“I’m good.”
“It’s Jade Garden,” she says, her voice sing-songy. “Your favorite …”
“I’m good,” I repeat.
“Oh. We’re going to that indie flick later, the one about the ambulance driver and the heart transplant patient, if you want to come with?”
I imagine Jude’s only seeing that one out of pure guilt. Ordinarily they’d be catching the latest Marvel flick or anything starring Liam Neeson, Denzel Washington, or Mark Wahlberg.
“I’ve got a paper due Monday, so …”
“We can wait until next weekend to see it.”
“I can catch it later this week. You two go on without me.”
Silence lingers between us. I glance behind me to see if she’s gone, but she’s just standing there, her hands jammed into her back pockets and her expression baked in deflated sadness. Sadness that’s directed at me, not the man who stuck his dick in crazy behind her back.
“Do me a favor and get the door, will you?” I ask, hoping she takes the hint.
“Sure.” She steps into the hall, tugging the door shut behind her. I wait for her footsteps to follow a few seconds later.
A week ago, I’d have ordered Chinese with them and went to the damn movie.
Now it doesn’t feel right.
And I can’t spend another day watching the only woman I give a damn about in the arms of a fool who doesn’t know how good he has it.
She should be in my arms.
Not his.
And she’ll never know it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Stone
* * *
“Mr. Atwood, your one o’clock is here,” my assistant pages me over my phone.
“Send him back.” I reach for the file folder Becca left on my desk the other week. I meant to glance over everything sooner, but I’ve been swamped.
There’s always been something in the air this time of year that makes people want to embark on life changes. Some people buy a house or a boat. Some people book a cruise. And then there are the ones who decide to divorce their spouses.
Maybe part of it has to do with being cooped up all winter. The cold season here is everlasting and unforgiving and, at times, isolating. It’s the ultimate marital stress test.
A man with jet black hair slicked back with some kind of pomade waltzes through my door. I rise from my chair, step out from behind my desk, and shake his hand.
“You must be Jason Whitlock,” I say. “Stone Atwood. I’m filling in for Becca today. Good to meet you.”
His grasp is firm. He’s wearing an insulting amount of expensive cologne and a cashmere sweater (never mind that it’s June).
“Please have a seat.” I point toward my guest chair and return to my own. “I’m not entirely familiar with your situation yet, so bear with me while I go through your documents.”
I flip the file folder open and scan the paperwork inside.
“It says here you originally filed with Wasser, Leeman and Smith,” I say. “Is there a reason you’re no longer working with them?”
“Yeah,” he says, crossing his legs wide and leaning back. His jaw is angled and his brows are heavy. “Negotiations weren’t going as well as I’d hoped. A buddy of mine recommended your firm. Said you were the best in town.”
That’s not the first time I’ve heard someone say that. In fact, the overwhelming majority of clients we take on heard of us from someone else. Word of mouth is the best advertising money can’t buy.
“And what exactly are you seeking from …” I scan the documents, searching for the name of the other party. My heart drops and my veins turn hot. “Jovie Annabeth Vincent.”
“Half of everything,” he says. “That’s how it works, right? You get married and what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours and that whole thing.”
“Not exactly.” My jaw is clenched as I attempt to maintain my composure. “The state of Maine isn’t a community property state, so marital assets aren’t typically divided fifty-fifty unless there was some kind of prenup in place or you’re able to make a compelling case to the court.”
“I thought it was an equitable distribution state?”
“Equitable distribution is not the same as equal distribution,” I say. “It simply means things are divided fairly.”
“All right. That shouldn’t be an issue then. It’s not like I’m asking for everything under the sun here. I’m just asking for enough to get myself back on my feet,” he says.
Jason is attractive by most standards, and his body language is confident. But his entire demeanor reeks of entitlement. I don’t want to know what Jovie saw in this man that made her fall hard enough to wear his ring on her finger.
“It says here the two of you were married less than a year,” I say.
“Right.”
“Was the decision to split mutual?” I ask. “Amicable?”
“Not exactly,” he says. “The spark kind of died out.”
“That quickly?” I ask out of curiosity because I can’t help myself.
“It happens.”
“Not as frequently as one might think,” I say. “Did the two of you attempt to make any sort of efforts to save the marriage? For instance, did you try counseling?”
He rolls his eyes. “Counseling never works.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Does it matter?”
“The court will want to know,” I say. “In order to divide assets equitably, they’ll need to know about the emotional investments at play here, not simply the financial investments.”
He blows a breath between pursed lips. “She wanted to try therapy, but I’ve never been into that kind of thing. Sitting around, talking about feelings? I’d rather stab myself in the balls with rusty scissors.”
I’ve only been in this man’s presence for a handful of minutes and already I’d like to do the same—to him.
“That’s certainly not going to work in your favor,” I say.
“Can’t we just lie? I mean, it’s my word against hers.”
“We absolutely cannot lie,” I say.
He chuckles through his nose, like he thinks I’m kidding.
“Oh, come on,” he says. “There’s got to be a way we can paint this in a better light. Isn’t that what lawyers do?”
I ignore his insulting question and flip through the remaining documents.
“It says here you’re seeking fifty percent of her earnings for the last fiscal year and you’d like fifty percent of any royalties stemming from the book she wrote while the two of you were married,” I say. “Did you help her write that book?”
“No,” he says. “But it’s a marital asset, right? Kind of like if I would’ve opened a business when we were together. She’d be entitled to a portion of those earnings or a share of the company.”
“Did you bring anything into this union?”
“I mean …”
“It says here, you have a 2015 Audi A6 that you still owe thirty grand on … a handful of credit cards with balances totaling around eighteen thousand … fifty-six thousand in student loan debt … and it looks like Ms. Vincent has a sizeable brokerage portfolio, a retirement plan, as well as a six-figure savings account. She brought significant assets to the marriage while you brought a mountain of debt.”
“When you put it that way …” His attention darts to the folder. “It looks bad. And I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.” I shut the file folder and shove it across my desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitlock, but my firm won’t be able to represent you.”
He chuffs, his chest puffing through his cashmere sweater. “I already paid a retainer.”
“We’ll see to it that it’s returned to you in full.” I rise and straighten my tie.
“I don’t understand …”
“We’re not the firm for you. Please show yourself out.” I walk him to the door, and he damn near trips over his fake Gucci loafers. “The check will be in the mail.”
Returning to my desk, I compose an email to Becca and copy her assistant, instructing them to release the client and return his retainer.
The subject line reads Conflict of Interest.
The number of times I’ve turned down clients in my career so far, I can count on one hand. I have no doubt I could’ve made some semblance of an argument for Jason if I tried—as unfair as it would have been to Jovie. There are always loopholes and exceptions if you look hard enough.
But I would never—could never—do that to her.
Her greatest strengths are also her fatal flaws: she loves too hard and trusts too deeply.
She doesn’t deserve to be punished for falling in love again.
And she won’t be.
Not on my watch.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jovie
* * *
I pull up to Stone’s place Monday evening, check my reflection in my visor mirror, and trot up his front walk. After I left the last time, I spent the entire drive to Monica’s cringing in mortified self-reflection.
I still can’t believe I told him I used to have a crush on him …
It just … slipped out.
The entire thing was made ten times worse by the fact that he didn’t react. He didn’t flinch. He barely blinked. There was no shock on his face. No smile. He just stood there, stoic and expressionless.
Perhaps on a deeper level, I was hoping he’d ‘fess up that he entertained the same thoughts back then. But once again, it was nothing more than wishful thinking. The wind was then completely taken from my sails when he mentioned that he was in love with someone and it was complicated.
I ring his doorbell and take a deep breath, scraping my confidence off the ground.
“Hey,” he says when he answers. “Come on in. I was just making dinner.”
The scent of freshly grilled steak fills the air.
“For you or for Domino?” I ask.
“Both,” he says. “You hungry?”
“I already ate …” I leave out the fact that I spent the entirety of the afternoon stress-eating Oreos and baked Lays as I contemplated how this was going to go.
All weekend, I debated sending him a message blaming my confession on the wine and attempting to play it off, but every rough draft was cringier than the one before so I let it go.
“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down when I find Domino, and I scratch behind his ears. “Are you ready to go home?”
Ida snagged a flight home today, and I promised I’d swing by and get Domino before picking her up from the airport.
“Were you good for Stone?” I ask.
He wags his tail.
“He was great,” Stone says as we head to the kitchen. “Almost makes me want to get a dog myself.”
“Really?”
“I said almost.”
“You ready?” I say to Dom. From the corner of my eye, I spot his toys and bed and leash.
“At least let him finish his steak.” Stone stabs a sirloin with a fork before slicing it into manageable pieces and placing it in Domino’s food bowl with a small handful of dry kibble.
“He’ll eat his kibble for you?”
“As long as I mix it with the steak.”
“That’s brilliant. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
“The trick is, you have to make the kibble appetizing first,” Stone says. “Then once he starts eating it, he thinks it’s his idea.”
“Good to know,” I say, although I doubt I’ll be in charge of watching Domino again anytime soon. I wait for him to finish scarfing down his kibble and steak before collecting his things. “We should get going.”
“I met Jason today,” Stone says.
“My Jason?” I ask, though he isn’t my Jason anymore. And if I’m being honest, he never was mine to begin with. He was nothing more than an opportunist who saw a golden goose. “Are you representing him?”
“No.” Stone’s voice is firm and his gaze is so intense it anchors me into place. “In fact, after reviewing his case, I told him we wouldn’t be able to offer him representation.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I have to ask … what did you see in that tool anyway?”
Thinking back to the Jason I first met is as painful as it is bittersweet. Painful because in hindsight I can see what a fool I was. Bittersweet because for a brief moment I thought that what we had was special … and real.
