Dear Future Ex-wife

Kevin stands up, towering over me. “I’m sorry for showing up late.” He cups my shoulder with his big hand and pulls me closer. “I want to make it up to you.”

“It’s not you.”

His eyebrows rise. “It’s me.”

I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. I have a family emergency. My dad needs me in Philly by morning.”

He nods. “Does it have to do with Nathan King? I read Tech Crunch this morning.”

“I don’t know,” I lie. “My dad wouldn’t say. I have to pack and get to the airport.”

“When will you be back? I’d like to take you out again, and next time, I promise nothing will keep me away.”

I smile at his words. “I’m not sure. Maybe a few days max. I’ll text you when I can. I have a feeling my dad is going to keep me busy.”

Kevin wraps me in his arms , and I take in his manly scent. He feels so good as his muscles flex around me, holding me in a tight grip. I had hoped tonight we could get closer and that I could blow the cobwebs off my chastity belt, as Nate said earlier. How does Nate know I haven’t had sex in forever? And why am I thinking of him while I’m in Kevin’s arms?

“Have a safe flight. Good luck,” he says against the shell of my ear.

When it comes to Nate, I need all the luck I can get.

Chapter Four

Nate

I need a fake bride, and I need one fast. My dad was serious about forcing Harley to marry me. She would do it, too, I know she would. Harley puts her family first, even when it’s to her detriment.

If I asked, more like begged her, would she say yes? Probably not. I would have to do a lot of groveling to get in her good graces. We hardly know each other anymore. Our relationship is beyond strained, worse than if we were complete strangers. I don’t know how to win this version of Harley over.

What the fuck am I going to do?

I blink a few times to clear my vision as I scroll through the women’s names in my cell phone. I don’t even have the phone number of the woman from the pictures. Not like I would ever call her again, even if I had it. Harley would kill me if she knew the truth, leaving us zero chance of rekindling our friendship.

“Ollie,” I yell to the bartender, my empty glass raised in the air. “Another Manhattan on the rocks.”

Oliver Fox, the bar owner, gives me a once-over before he takes the highball glass from my hand. “You look like you’ve had enough, Nate. Maybe you should give it a rest for the night.”

“C’mon, bro,” I groan. “Don’t be a dick. After the day I’ve had, I need this.”

We’ve been friends for years. Ollie is in my inner circle and fully aware of the situation I put my family in with another scandal. When I first met Ollie, he had recently been adopted by George and Carla Fox, the richest family on the East Coast of the United States. He was seventeen, as were nine of his foster brothers, when all of their lives changed forever. The newspapers were shocked a wealthy couple in their late fifties would adopt ten children at once, all within one year of them becoming adults. It was an odd situation, but that’s also how Ollie ended up with his own bar.

Ollie slides a hand through his long blond hair that curls behind his ears. He gives me the same look I have gotten all day. He feels sorry for me, but I don’t want anyone’s pity.

“Your face is on the front page of every paper,” he says. “After all the bad press, this is the last place you should be seen.”

Playboy. Manwhore. Philanderer. Black sheep.

I have read it all today. You name it, and I have been called it by some news outlet. But the black sheep comment in The Philadelphia Inquirer pissed me off most. They have no idea how right they are about me. The Golden Boy and The Prodigal Son, depending on which day you ask my dad I’m one or the other. But my younger brother is always golden, untouchable, the favorite.

“Are you kicking me out, Ollie?”

He rolls his eyes and leans forward, pressing his palms to the bar. “You can’t drink your way out of this problem.”

I roll my shoulders, a simple movement that forces me to grip the edge of the bar so I don’t fall off the stool. Okay, maybe Ollie is right. Over the past few hours, I’ve drunk my weight in bourbon and sweet vermouth and can barely keep my eyes open.

“But I can drink until I forget,” I challenge.

Ollie shakes his head and then slides a glass of water in front of me. “Drink up,” he says, and then taps the bar with his fist. “I’m calling you a cab.”