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Asher groans. “I know. It was only supposed to be one time. And then—”
“I don’t want any details. Just keep your mouth shut and I will too.”
Asher nods once.
I nod back, then turn to leave.
“Hey, Oliver. I’m assuming this was a drunk in Vegas thing?”
“Yes.”
“So, no prenup.”
I don’t answer, which is one.
Asher whistles, long and low. “Things didn’t end well between her and Crew.”
“I know.”
“Get a good attorney.”
I nod again, then walk out of his office.
CHAPTERNINE
HANNAH
Iscroll through the notifications on the screen, pocketing my phone again when I see there’s nothing from Oliver. I called him earlier, as promised, and got his voicemail. And the dread I carried around all weekend has only grown with each minute that passes without a response, as I wonder why he didn’t answer and worry about what he’ll say when we talk.
My name gets called, so I walk up to the counter to pick up my sandwich. I grab the paper bag, turn toward the door, and freeze.
I haven’t seen Crew Kensington in nearly two years. And now he’s standing in my favorite lunch spot three days after I accidentally married his brother. Considering we parted under incredibly poor terms, awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Before I can decide how to react, Crew glances over and spots me. We stare at each other for a few stunned seconds, before Crew says something to the man he’s with and heads in my direction.
My palms start to sweat as he approaches. He looks the same, as assured and attractive as the first time I met him. But it’s different. There’s no draw, no excitement. Just dread.
“Hi, Hannah.”
“Hi, Crew.” I’m grateful my voice sounds normal, at least.
He’s studying me cautiously. I’m probably looking at him the same way. I doubt Oliver told him what happened between us in Vegas, but I don’t know that for certain.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Crew chuckles uncomfortably, but there’s still an easiness to the sound. He has an innate confidence to him, which is part of what drew me in. It’s relaxing to be around, like coasting. And I can’t help but compare it to Oliver’s sharp edges. Everything he said at the bar reads differently now, in the context of knowing his last name.
“I live here.”
“Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. “How’ve you been?”
“Fi-Good,” I reply. “I’m good.”
“That’s good.”
“You?”
He smiles. “I’m good too. Sleep-deprived, but good.”
I’m starting to lose circulation in my hand, with how tightly I’m clutching the bag’s handle. “I, uh, congratulations on the baby.”
