Accidentally In Love Page 4

  Now that the need for pretense is gone and she no longer has to play her role, the real Brittany is free to come out. Seeing her – the real her – for the first time, I have to say, she is not very attractive. And once again, I'm forced to ask myself – how could I not have seen through her facade sooner? How could I have been so blind?

  And the only answer I can come up with is that it's because I was in love with her.

  “I haven't been happy for a long time now, Liam,” she spits.

  “You've been plenty happy to keep spending all of my money on your shopping trips.”

  She shrugs. “I called it the putting up with Liam tax.”

  “Oh, you have a name for it,” I say. “How sweet. I'm flattered.”

  “You're never around,” she says. “And it got to the point that when you were around, I was wishing you weren't. You just don't do it for me, Liam.”

  “And I suppose Travis does?”

  “In more ways than you can ever imagine,” she says, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “He satisfies me in ways that you never could. Travis is a real man – unlike you.”

  I chuckle and drain the last of my wine, setting the glass back down on the table. I look up at Brittany for a long moment and am surprised to find that when I look at her – at least, this new version of her – all the love I'd had in my heart is gone. As I look at her now, at this new woman sitting before me, all I feel is contempt and disgust.

  Like I said, I'm not overly-sentimental to begin with, but this is actually going to be a lot easier than I had initially thought.

  “Well, since we've gone and skipped ahead to the portion of the program that calls for the hateful verbal barbs that are designed to be hurtful,” I say, “we can go ahead and get down to brass tacks.”

  She chuckles. “Brass tacks?” she says. “Since we're going to divorce, obviously, I'll be taking half of everything. That's how the law works, sweetie.”

  I narrow my eyes and give her a predatory smile. “That is how the law works, you're right,” I say, “if you're not smart enough to have a prenup.”

  I slip the prenuptial agreement we'd both signed out of the folder and set it on top of the emails, letting her see it with her own two eyes. The prenup provided her with a generous alimony payment in the event of divorce as well as a few other perks.

  I'm now determined that she isn't going to get any of it. I had my lawyer draft up a new document, one that she is going to sign before we leave this restaurant. It's a document that relinquishes her claim to any of my money or properties. I am done with her and I'm done supporting her lifestyle.

  “Forgot about that, didn't you?” I ask.

  She shrugs as if she's not concerned. “I'll challenge it in court.”

  “No, you won't.”

  “Oh, I won't?” she asks, a small chuckle escaping her. “Then you obviously, don't know me very well.”

  “If we go to court,” I say, “you and your boyfriend both are going to prison for a very long time.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I just told you that I know everything, Brit,” I say. “I know about your plan to steal my company or if that fails, to drain my bank account.”

  I didn't think it was possible, but her face blanches to an even whiter shade than it was a moment ago. I can see the thoughts and emotions cycling through her as she looks at me, the disbelief in her eyes, as well as the anger that's smoldering within them.

  As if a thought seems to suddenly occur to her, Brittany's eyes narrow and she looks at me with the same sort of contempt and disgust on her face that I feel for her.

  “You had somebody investigating me,” she says – not a question.

  I nod. “I did,” I reply. “I suspected you were having an affair. All the rest of the information about your would-be criminal enterprise was unexpected. I'm glad to have it though. What you two were in the process of doing is a very serious crime, Brit.”

  “I cannot believe you had somebody spying on me,” she hisses. “You son of a bitch.”

  I laugh out loud and shake my head. “That's rich,” I say. “You're the one cheating on me. You're the one trying to steal my company and all my money. And yet, somehow in your twisted brain, I'm the son of a bitch here? Priceless, Brittany. Priceless.”

  I notice that patrons at a few of the tables surrounding us are looking our way, although they're pretending to not eavesdrop. Personally, I don't care. I brought Brittany here because I figured she'd make less of a scene in public and I'd rather avoid the drama – but if she does, she does. I'm not going to worry about it anymore. She's not my problem. Or at least, she won't be once she signs the decree.

  Besides, having witnesses when this all goes down can only be a positive thing. Once we're done here, I'm leaving Seattle and I want to be sure that when I go, she's still intact, whole, and completely unharmed. Knowing what I now know about her, I can see her drumming up some abuse allegations just to squeeze more cash out of me. As long as I leave here, with her unharmed in plain sight, I'm golden.

  “I hate you,” she seethes. “I've hated you for a long time.”

  I shrug. “That doesn't concern me anymore,” I say. “The only thing that concerns me right now is ending this sham of a marriage.”

  “Happily,” she says. “But, you will abide by the terms of the prenuptial agreement.”

  “Have you not listened to a word I've said?” I ask her. “I have evidence that you and lover boy were trying to orchestrate a crime. I've already spoken with my lawyer and she assures me that there is a very strong case to be had here. If you push me, Brit, I am going to nail you to the wall. I'm not going to hold back and both of you are going to wind up in prison. And not the cushy Club Fed kind of prison either. I don't know about your boy toy, but I've got a real strong feeling you wouldn't do well inside. I hear they don't take kindly to haughty, snooty bitches like you.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Liam,” she sneers, drawing the attention of nearby patrons again.

  I chuckle as I pull a document out of the folder and slide it across the table to her. “You say the sweetest things,” I say. “This is a decree, drawn up by my lawyer, in which you relinquish your rights to any of my money or my properties. Once our divorce is finalized, you'll go your way with what you brought into the marriage and I'll go my way with what I brought.”

  She shakes her head. “You can't do this,” she says. “You know I don't have anything. You know I didn't grow up with money.”

  “Not my problem, Brittany,” I say. “Maybe you should have thought about all of that before you tried to fuck me over. You, of all people, should know that I'm not somebody who takes kindly to being stabbed in the back. You, of all people, should know that if you take a shot at me, you better kill me because I will destroy you if you don't.”

  Big, fat tears roll down her cheeks again and this time, I'm convinced they're real. They're not tears for the destruction of our marriage though. They're tears of self-pity. Tears of a woman who knows she rolled the dice and just crapped out. The tears of a woman who knows she has lost everything.

  The tears she's shedding aren't because she's sad our marriage is over. She feels sorry for herself.

  “Just to prove that I'm not a complete monster,” I say, “I'm giving you the condo downtown. I'm not going to force you to live on the street. I mean, I should, but I'm not going to. Sign the decree and the condo is yours. After that, your life is up to you.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks,” she spits. “So fucking generous. After all the years I've given you –”

  “Years I was apparently sharing with this Travis asshole,” I cut her off. “Don't sit there and pretend you don't deserve this. Don't sit there and act like you've been some noble, loving wife. You've enjoyed a lavish lifestyle at my expense and apparently, everything I tried to give you still wasn't enough. Travis is the only one I know you've been fucking. Who knows how many others there were or still are.”

 
“How dare you,” she sneers. “I'm not some cheap whore.”

  “No, you have very expensive taste,” I say. “And you should be grateful I'm giving you the condo out of the goodness of my heart. So, sign the fucking paper and let's be done with this.”

  “What in the hell am I supposed to do, Liam?” she hisses at me, very conscious of the people stealing glances at her.

  I shrug. “What do I care?” I ask. “Maybe lover boy can start paying for your lavish lifestyle. That's for you to figure out. I'm done supporting you.”

  Taking a pen out of my pocket, I set it down on top of the paperwork and look at her expectantly. She looks at the decree and then up at me, something akin to panic in her eyes. She really has no idea what she's going to do once she signs that paper and our marriage is over.

  She had grown accustomed to a certain way of life. She was used to being pampered. Doted upon. Having her every whim and desire catered to. And I'm getting the impression that ol' Travis isn't going to be able to continue that way of life for her. It makes me want to laugh, but I remain respectfully silent.

  “Sign the paper,” I say. “Or go to prison. The choice is yours.”

  She picks up the pen but hesitates, looking at me. “Please, Liam –”

  “Sign it,” I say, “or I'll have my lawyer get in touch with the authorities and turn over all the evidence I've collected. Either way, this free ride is over. Find somebody else to pay your way through life because I'm fucking done with it. I'm done with you.”

  The tears rolling down her face unchecked, she signs the paper and slides it back to me, unable to meet my gaze. I slip it back into the folder, stand up and throw a wad of cash down on the table. Giving her one last look, I turn and walk out without another word. There's really nothing left to say between us.

  As I step out into the cold and wet Seattle evening, I feel relieved, angry – and a little heartbroken. It's done. It's over. And as I have my car take me to the heliport, I lean back in the seat and let the complex and deep wave of emotions washing over me pull me under.

  Paige

  Six Weeks Later...

  “Please tell me you're not serious, Mrs. Brenton,” I say.

  She shrugs and refills my coffee mug. “They made me a really nice offer,” she says. “I think I'd be a fool to turn it down.”

  Mrs. Brenton is a sweet older lady. Her gray hair, as always, is pulled back into a long braid that hangs to the middle of her back. She's got a kind, soft face, and blue eyes that sparkle like the gemstone this town was named for. She's the grandmotherly type that always has a kind word, and I've been friends with her for a long, long time.

  I sigh as I pour the sugar and cream into my coffee, sadness and disappointment running over me. Mrs. Brenton is the owner of Daily Cuppa, my favorite coffeehouse in town. It's where I come most mornings to get a bagel and a coffee before starting my day. It's been here forever. The Cuppa is practically an institution in Port Safira, with generations having passed through these doors.

  And yet, now knowing that she was taking Damon Moore's offer and selling the place, I'm filled with a thousand times more disappointment, anger, and angst than I had been previously. I look around the place and recall coming in here when I was in high school, talking about my life with Mrs. Brenton, and enjoying the sense of camaraderie that existed between us.

  “Honestly, sweetie,” she says. “You should really think about taking their offer. In fact, given your shop's position on the street, I'd be willing to bet you could make them sweeten the deal even more. You really could stand to make a mint if you sell.”

  I shake my head. “I'm not interested in selling,” I say. “I've told them that a million times over, but they keep coming back and trying to talk me into it all over again.”

  She cocks her head at me, a soft smile touching her lips. “And why don't you want to sell?” she asks.

  “Honestly, I hate what they're doing to this town,” I say. “I hate that they're turning it into some cookie-cutter suburb for the rich and powerful. I hate that good people like you are being driven out.”

  “Oh, I'm not being driven out, sweetie,” she says. “I'm choosing to leave. On my terms. I realize that it's time. And believe me, I made them give me a sweetheart of a deal for this property.”

  I sigh. “I hate what they're turning this town into, Mrs. Brenton.”

  She reaches across the counter and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “It's going to happen one way or the other, whether we like it or not,” she says. “Those wheels of progress are already turning and there's no way to stop them.”

  It's a disgusting but inescapable truth. There is no way to stop what they're doing to my hometown and intellectually, I know that my little holdout, my principled little stand, is only going to be a minor inconvenience for them. They're going to change the nature of this town with or without my involvement.

  I know this, and I hate it. I hate them for what they're doing.

  “I don't like being strong-armed or bulled,” I say. “Mayor Goodrich has really been putting the squeeze on me to sell. But, the harder he pushes, the more I feel compelled to push back. It's like a reflex or something at this point.”

  Mrs. Brenton laughs and claps her hands. “That's my girl, always the fighter,” she says. “Don't let them bully you into anything.”

  “I certainly don't intend to.”

  Her smile is soft and wistful as she looks at me. “I see so much of your mother and father in you,” she says. “They were kind, but they weren't the type you wanted to back into a corner. They were fierce when they needed to be.”

  I smile and nod. “That they were.”

  “Is that why you don't want to sell?” she asks. “Because of your parents?”

  I feel the sting of the tears as they well in my eyes and the familiar pain in my chest whenever I think or talk about them. They've been gone for a few years now, but the wound in my heart feels as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

  “That's all I have left of them,” I say. “That bookstore is their legacy. I feel like that bookstore is them.”

  She gives my hand another squeeze and when I look up, there's a warm, gentle, and entirely grandmotherly smile on her face.

  “No, honey,” she says. “Your shop is nothing but a pile of bricks, mortar, and books. Tearing it down won’t erase them or the legacy they built. Their legacy and the most impressive and important thing they ever created is you, sweetheart. And what you build, what you create, will only further their legacy – as well as your own. So long as you never forget them, their legacy will always be alive.”

  I try to fight off the tears, but they roll down my cheeks anyway. I scrub them away quickly and sniff loudly.

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm not usually this emotional.”

  “It's okay,” she replies. “Maybe you need to let yourself be. Once in a while, anyway.”

  A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I look at the older woman. “What do you think I should do, Mrs. Brenton?”

  She sighs. “I can't tell you what you should do, sweetheart.”

  “I know,” I say. “I'm just curious what you think I should do.”

  “Honestly, what I think you should do is take a step back from it all,” she says. “Look at the facts on the ground with a critical and objective eye. You have to find some way to take all of the emotion out of it when you're faced with making a decision like this.”

  “I don't know that I can.”

  “You need to find a way, sweetheart,” she says. “If you can't look at the situation without some emotional bias, you're doing yourself a disservice by clouding the issue. You owe it to yourself to come at this with a clear mind and an objective voice.”

  I scrub away the last of the tears and take a sip of my coffee, taking a moment to gather myself. Intellectually, I know what she's saying makes sense. But, I can't reconcile the cold logic in my mind with the fire in my heart and spirit.

  “If I
were as young and gorgeous as you,” Mrs. Brenton says, “I'd take the cash and move to someplace I could run around without any clothes on all day, find a stud of a man, and have lots of babies.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Positively scandalous, Mrs. B.”

  She shrugs, a wide grin on her face. “Believe me, honey, when you get to be my age, you'll find yourself wishing for a body like yours and a man to make it feel good all-night long.”

  Mrs. Brenton has always been a bit of a rebel. She's always had a wild streak in her – a streak that's mellowed with age. Somewhat. Hearing her speak this way isn't exactly out of the norm for her, but it's still surprising. She's a lot like Skyler, in a way – they both lack filters and will often say whatever pops into their head at the time.

  The mention of my body, however, makes my cheeks flare with heat and color. I don't think I'm all that gorgeous. Especially compared to somebody like Skyler. I've got some curves, my boobs are a little too large, and my tummy isn't exactly supermodel tight.

  Back in high school and college, I was an athlete. I played soccer – definitely not the sport of supermodels. Playing soccer, though, is what got me the scholarship that allowed me to go to UCLA in the first place. That was one of the reasons why it killed me so much to have to leave school. My parents wouldn't have been able to afford it and there was no way I could afford to go to school on my own. Actually, I still can't.

  Being that close to my degree and not being able to finish it has been a thorn in my paw for a long while now. But it's something that I've had to learn to live with.

  The electronic bell chimes as somebody steps through the door. I turn and am relieved to see Skyler strolling in. Despite being in yoga pants, Ugg boots, and a hoodie, she still manages to look fashionable and downright sexy. It's a skill I admire and envy at the same time.

  Skyler drops down on the stool next to me and gives me a wide grin – a grin that I can interpret easily enough. Mrs. Brenton sets a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin – Skyler's usual – down on the counter and then strolls off to see to her other customers, leaving me alone with my best friend.