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I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What is it now?”
“He’s, uh, doing some digging. Into your relationship.”
I sat up straight in my car, my heart slamming in my chest. “What?”
“Yeah. Nothing official, just asking people about you and Ciara—how long people have seen y’all together, what Ciara is like—stuff like that. Now, as your lawyer, I can’t advise you to do anything about it. But as your friend, all I can say is get your house in order. You already got your marriage license and all the paperwork signed, so just move in together. Shore it up, because he’s gonna try some shady shit; I can feel it.”
I blew out a breath. “Of course.”
I could almost feel Harold’s shrug. “That’s your cousin. But you don’t have anything to worry about, as long as the relationship’s legit. No matter what he finds, it doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re with Ciara. And as far as I can tell, there’s nothing in the estate or will that says your future wife has to have certain characteristics or lack thereof. You should be good.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s good to hear. Not that we have anything to worry about with Ciara. I did a preliminary search before we met for our first date, and she has close to no internet presence. She doesn’t even have social media.”
Harold whistled. “You sure you wanna marry her?”
I laughed. “Man, shut up.”
He laughed, too. “You know I’m just playing. She seems nice. Quiet. She’s not your usual type, so I’m surprised.”
My mind flipped through my dating history like a Rolodex, seeing one woman after another. Unfortunately, I did have a type: successful, driven, ambitious. Women who could talk to anyone about anything and could really work a room. While I didn’t know Ciara well enough to know if she was successful or ambitious, she was definitely quiet, and she didn’t seem like the type to work a room. In fact, she seemed much more likely to not want to be in the room in the first place.
And yet, in the week and change that I’d known her, I felt a deeper connection with her than any of the other women I had dated. Ciara was genuine and caring, which is more than I could say for any of the others.
“She’s not my usual type,” I agreed, “which is why she’s the one. Now if only I could get Zeke off my back, everything would be perfect.”
“Well, start with moving in together,” Harold advised. “Before Zeke finds some kind of loophole that he can exploit.”
I sighed, knowing that everything was about to get exponentially more complicated. “You got it,” I said.
It was time to talk to Ciara about moving in.
ChapterTwenty-One
CIARA
After Nathan dropped us off and Brooklyn had a chance to shower, we started the tradition we always did on the first day in town together: baking and teen movies.
While she was in the shower, I set out the ingredients for oatmeal cranberry cookies. Though I wasn’t particularly fond of oatmeal, I knew it would be a comfort to Brooklyn; she often had allergic reactions to baked goods, but this recipe was tried and true.
I frowned as I set out the flour, thinking back to what Nathan said after he kissed me. He appreciated me sticking up for him, and he seemed surprised that I would take his side over Brooklyn’s. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me—in fact, it made a lot of sense for me to take my best friend’s side over the side of a person I’d just met—but the way he said that he was surprised that I would do such a thing…well, it didn’t sit right with me. I strived for inner and outer peace, creating harmony in my environment so we could all focus on what’s important in life. I never understood others’ penchant to play “devil’s advocate,” nor did I see much need for conflict, especially when people were on the same side.
But despite all of this, I didn’t want harmony to come at the expense of doing what was right. And the realization that I might have been doing this all along—putting peace above what was right—made me a little queasy. Regardless of wanting to smooth the troubled waters between Brooklyn and Nathan, it shouldn’t come at the expense of protecting my now-husband.
I turned to Brooklyn as she entered the kitchen, smelling like my body wash and her light perfume. Her braids flowed around her shoulders, hitting her at the waist, and she wore a soft-looking pair of light gray sweatpants and a black tank top. She had switched out her contacts for glasses, the chunky black frame dwarfing her face.
She inspected the ingredients, smiling as she saw the cranberries. “Oatmeal cranberry,” she said. “Good choice.”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” I said absently.
She took one look at my face and frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
She stared, waiting.
“It’s nothing,” I repeated, fiddling with the bag of flour. “It’s just…”
“Just?”
