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“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 wedon’thave 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 withwhat?” 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.
