After climbing over the center console to hug her grandmother, Lainey sunk into the driver’s seat and drove to the outlet mall Benihana for her midday nonsexual lunch appointment with her platonic fiancé.
She scanned the restaurant and spotted a hand in the air, waving at her. It was Elliot, standing next to a long hibachi tablesurrounded by empty chairs. He was in olive pants and a rich, chocolate-brown sweater that pulled tight at his shoulders. He looked nice. Really nice.
“Brown is a practical choice for hibachi. Good for stains.” He didn’t respond. Instead, he looked down at his outfit as though he’d forgotten what he was wearing. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had this thing with my grandmother and—”
“You’re fine. I got you a lemonade.”
She looked down at the glass, surprised by the gesture and his casual response to her tardiness. She assumed someone as buttoned up as Elliot would care deeply about things like punctuality—and parking validation, probably.
He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “You mentioned liking it. Technically, you mentioned Bree liking it, but you were drinking some…and now I’m realizing I should’ve let you order what you wanted and not assumed—”
“I love lemonade.” She reached out her hand for a reassuring forearm pat but let it fall before reaching him. “Easily a top-three beverage. Thank you for ordering it for me. That was…thoughtful.”
“You’re welcome.” His smile was disarmingly sweet. Nervous. “You look nice,” he said, gesturing at the green floral sundress under her coat.
Nowshewas a little nervous. They’d found a rhythm as adversaries. This new alliance had upset the balance. Even breathing was awkward.
“Should we sit?” she asked.
He blinked fast and then answered, “Of course. The chef’s making the appetizers.”
Lainey had never been to a Benihana, but she’d somehow absorbed the experience through popular culture. It was more orless what she’d expected. Dark room. Red accent lights. Long rectangular tables with a cooktop in the center and a tall, twenty-something Asian man dressed in chef’s whites and a cylindrical red hat presiding behind it like the ringmaster of a tiny, steamy circus. The chef’s performance was a little sleepy—his egg spin lacked a certain star quality—but to his credit, she and Elliot were the weekday matinee crowd. It was wise of him to save his good material for the dinner rush.
She was scooching herself in when Elliot attempted to give the back of her chair a gentlemanly push, nearly tipping her into the grill.
His face blanched. “Sorry. I thought I should—”
“I didn’t realize you were going to—”
What was happening? This was reeking of first-date awkwardness, and she wasn’t prepared to feign interest in his intramural kickball league for the next forty-odd minutes. They were getting married, but they weren’tdating. That last part was an essential part of the deal.
“Should we get right to business?” she asked. There. That should clarify what this was in the event that anyone was confused. “I had my lawyer look at the prenup, and we’re all good there.”
She, in fact, didnothave her lawyer look at the prenup. She was currently dodging Mark’s calls since he had billed her seven hundred dollars for the whole adverse possession debacle and had, through an intermediary, refused to accept payments through Klarna.
He had, however, accepted the birdhouse she constructed for him, just not as payment.
She’d had Bree print out the prenup for her at work, where Ansel, the front desk manager, gave it a quick once over becausehe and his wife had divorced and remarried and recently gotten divorced again. As far as Lainey was concerned, it didn’t get much more expert than that.
“Really?” Elliot sighed with visible relief. “That’s good to hear. So you still want to do this?”
“Of course. People get married for way dumber reasons. Like being on a reality show together. Or for religious sex reasons. Not in a culty way, but, like, in an abstinence-until-marriage way. But I guess people in cults get married, too.” She was rambling now and couldn’t stop. She’d have to throw herself onto the grill after all. It was the only rational solution. “Wait…” She recognized a man in a yellow Hawaiian shirt just over Elliot’s shoulder, beelining for their table. “Did you invite the other passenger from your rideshare to our lunch?” She knew the man’s name, but she wasn’t sure Elliot would.
“Oh good. Isaac’s here.” Elliot turned to offer him a friendly wave.
“Did you guys keep in touch?”
“We need a witness, and he’s the only other person in town I know. Plus, he knows you, and I wasn’t about to go into this without character references.”
“Wait, why do we need a witness?” she asked, clearly missing some key information. “What is Isaac witnessing?”
“Our wedding. What else? Isaac! Thanks for helping us out, man. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course!” Isaac responded, patting Elliot’s back in a man-bro hug. “You said ‘Beni,’ and I said ‘How high?’ ” Based on the incomprehensible syntax of Isaac’s sentence and his skunky odor, she imagined the answer to “How high?” was “Very.”
“Wait…” The world around her had been dialed up to double speed, and Lainey was barely keeping pace. “We’re gettingmarriednow? Here? In a Benihana? During an active lunch rush?”
“Lunch rush?” Elliot questioned, as though that was the oddest part of her question. “There are, like, three other people here. Besides, the courthouse only does weddings every other Friday, and Chef Nemoto happens to be the cheapest officiant on FindMyOfficiant.com.”
