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“I…don’t,” she said.
“Then we’ll get an annulment.”
“You really don’t remember anything?”
He shook his head. “I don’t. Do you?”
Of course, she did.
She remembered everything.
She remembered going to the jeweler, buying the rings. She remembered the poker game that led to them standing outside the chapel with its wooden brown exterior and sky-high turret. She clearly remembered walking into that wooden chapel and then marrying the nemesis of her life—completely sober.
The “why” continued to escape her.
She liked that he challenged her, bringing a certain fire to a potential relationship that she’d craved but never had. She loved the way he thought, the way his mind worked. Regardless, he was different from the men of her past, both in age and complexion. But he’d told her, without a hitch, that she needed to learn to spell his last name because it would one day be hers.
Who, in their right mind, did that?
And why was it so attractive?
“When do you want to file the annulment?” she asked.
His fingers dipped inside the crease at her hip. “We can do it after the conference. I present today.”
“Are you okay to present?”
“It’s after lunch. I should be fine by then. I’m not that hungover.”
“What if we didn’t worry about that right now?” she proposed. “We have time. I’ll be in the D.C. area next week for Fashion Week. I have a couple of photo shoots and a couture showcase, and I already planned to stay at Delilah’s. Let’s get everything settled then.”
“Where are the photoshoots?”
“Foggy Bottom.”
“For a designer?”
“Have you ever heard of Paola Brathwaite?”
“You must know that I haven’t.”
She held back a laugh. The man was nothing if not consistent.
“Paola’s a musician,” she explained. “A lot of musicians are branching out into fashion and makeup.”
“What is it, gowns or something?” he asked.
She could barely call the outfits lingerie. After the success of Rihanna’s Savage X Fenty line, more artists and influencers were dipping their toes into the lingerie fashion industry. Paola had gone much further than bras and panties, however.
“Sleepwear,” she half-lied. “But let’s meet up while I’m in town to get everything squared away. Let’s finish the conference and worry about everything else…later.”
He patted her hip, rolled out of bed, and stretched his arms, his back facing her. While it wasn’t unheard of for physicians to take good care of themselves, Lucas had gone past “good care.” The man was in excellent shape, lean and muscular, and she wondered whether someone like him had ever struggled with body image issues at any point in his life. For all she knew, he’d never met a struggle, image-based or otherwise, and had led an idyllic, privileged life.
He searched the floor.
She crawled to the edge of the mattress and peered over the side. “What are you looking for?”
“My clothes.”
