Chapter One
Wyatt
“I need a wife.”
“Not this again,” Lucy groans. She covers her eyes as if blocking her sight will block out my words. I pull her hand away and try to get her to meet my gaze. She refuses.
“Yes, this again, and this time, it’s serious. Baker took me aside this morning and said that he wanted to promote me to the executive committee, but he couldn’t because I was single. Uncle Cristoff came by my office and stood at the doorway for five minutes in complete silence looking like someone had kicked his puppy.”
“He doesn’t have a puppy.” She pulls her hand out of mine and brushes some non-existent crumbs off her lap. We just finished devouring a pizza while watching Chef’s Table on Netflix. We always eat while we watch the show, but while the on-screen people are eating some glorious concoction with ingredients that Lucy and I have to google, we’re munching on takeout from the local pizzeria or Thai place. Neither of us have the time or skill to cook. We live on restaurant food. Maybe that’s the problem. I try to remember if any of Lucy’s past boyfriends cooked. I can’t recall, but it’s because I’ve blocked all those memories out in the rare times she’s brought them up.
“I know. That’s what made it even sadder.”
“What’d you do?”
“What do you think I did? I pretended he wasn’t there.” Like I pretend her exes don’t exist. Any man, really. “I acted very busy, reading depositions from that Friendship app copyright case, and he finally moved on.”
“So get married.”
“I can’t. I’m saving myself for you,” I reply as I always do.
“Har har har,” she fake laughs and then punches me in the shoulder, as she always does. “Seriously, though, if getting married is what is preventing you from taking over the firm as your uncle wants, then get married. It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”
“I’m thirty-five.” Although I do feel my age. I get tired easier. After my five-mile morning run, I’m gassed, whereas ten years ago, I could do the run and lift weights for an hour and still feel energized. These days, I’m dragging my ass down my route and coming home out of breath. What a pisser.
“Like I said”—she pushes to her feet, as graceful as a ballerina—“you’re not getting any younger.” She walks toward the door of my townhouse where her purse sits and her shoes are tangled with mine. “I’ll send you a list of women.”
“I don’t want it.” I cross my arms like a petulant kid.
“Uncle Cristoff isn’t going to retire until the partners vote you into the chair seat, and if it requires you to get married, then I think we both know what you should do.”
“Kidnap you,” I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” She hitches on her jacket.
“I was closing the pizza box. Did you hear something?” There’s no point in me bringing up the marriage thing again.
“I guess not.” She blows me a kiss from her lips. “Take care of yourself and don’t drink too much tonight. I’ll see you this weekend. We’re still on for dinner at Lucca’s, right?”
“How do you know I’ll be drinking tonight?”
“I see Leo walking up the side stairs carrying a bottle of booze.”
“That could be just for him.”
“Sure, Wyatt. It’s not your favorite or anything and about two hundred dollars more than Leo would ever spend. Anyway, be a good boy.” She ducks out the door with that.
“As if I’m ever anything but a good boy,” I grumble. About five minutes later, there’s a double tap on the back door.
“Come in. It’s unlocked,” I yell.
Leo waltzes in, his nose red and goosepimples all over his uncovered forearms. “Heard Lucy leaving.” He holds up a bottle. “Want some?”
“I’ll take it all.”
“That bad, huh?”
“She’s sending me a list of eligible candidates.” I told Leo all about my dilemma earlier in the day before Lucy came over to shoot me down once again.
Leo toes off his shoes and comes over to drop down on the sofa beside me. He nudges the pizza box open and swipes a leftover slice before breaking open the bottle.
“I think you need to just come out and confess to her.” Leo fills the glass a third of the way full and hands it over.
I gesture for him to pour more. It’s a half a bottle kind of night, not half a glass. “How much more blunt can I be than ‘we should get married’?”
“I dunno, but whatever you’re doing isn’t working.”
“You know what? Just hand me the bottle. This glass is for kids.”
“I’m drinking from a glass,” he protests.
“Precisely. You live in my attic, drink five hundred dollar Scotch out of plastic cups, and eat leftover pizza. You are a child.”
“Well, so are you. Your toys are just bigger and more expensive, but you eat pizza and pad Thai instead of going to restaurants with the models that keep slipping you their phone numbers.”