She nods seriously. “Fair. I used to call him Dump Truck sometimes when we were kids and he’d get all angry.”
“What am I going to do, Margot?” I bury my head in my hands.
The worst part—the absolute worst—is that I don’thatethe idea of being his wife in a freaky abstract way.
Who wouldn’t want to marry a billionaire?
There are whole reality shows like that, I think.
Even if it’s just a chance to live it up rich for a little while.
Attention isn’t really my thing, but it would be a chance to be something more than my usual quiet, readery self.
A rare chance to live an adventure instead of just reading about them.
Unfortunately, that’s when I picturewhoI have to marry again to make this fantasy come true.
Ethan, standing in a dark suit like he’s waiting to collect my soul, devastatingly handsome and scowling like always.
Scowling at me.
Disapproving and incredibly pissed he’s tying the knot with a woman he’ll never truly want, till death do us part.
Yikes!
I blink to clear the image from my mind.
“You want me to marry him,” I whisper, knowing it’s not a question.
Obviously, she’s on team Hell Marriage or she never would’ve brought in the lawyer.
Margot winces, but before she can argue, there’s a buzz on the intercom and my mom’s voice floats out.
“Honey, it’s me. I’m just pulling up to your building and I’ve got something for you!” she sings.
Holy hell, what timing.
I drop my face back in my hands.
“Oh, man. Not good. Want me to send her away?” Margot asks like the babe she is. “I can say you’re not well.”
I wave her away. “That’s not going to work. If you tell her I’m unwell, she’ll insist on barging in to see me.”
“Even for a cold?” Margot blinks.
“Especially if it’s a cold. Try to keep her away and she’ll break down the door.” Although maybe if we mention a little projectile vomiting, it might give my mom second thoughts.
Then again, she’d probably just talk up the bright side, how maybe I’ll finally lose a few pounds and ‘reset’ my system with a fast.
I stagger up as the intercom buzzes again, and then my phone vibrates. If there’s one thing Mom doesn’t have, it’s patience.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, trying and failing to inject some lightness into my voice. I feel so deflated. “I’m just up here hanging out with Margot.”
“Oh, Margot! Tell her I can’t wait to see her.” Mom sounds delighted.
I knew she would be.
Probably because Margot is everything I’m not: slim, pretty and semi-successful.
