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“And what did he say?”
“Some BS about how his parents were making a big deal out of it, so he just wanted one to get his mom and dad off his case.”
“And you didn’t believe him?”
“Not for a minute,” she said. “His parents were crazy about me. They never would have demanded a prenup.”
“So what do you think was the real reason?”
“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging.
Bullshit. She must have done something to make him think she was after his money. Why else would he feel the need to safeguard it? “You seemed pretty sensitive about me saying Greta was a gold digger. Is that what your fiancé thought you were?”
“No,” she said. “Tyler was the spender. He was the one who always wanted more. The only thing we ever really argued about was money, but he was the one always accusing me of being cheap, not the other way around. Trust me, he knew that a gold digger was about the last thing I was.”
Based on her mode of transport, it was clear she wasn’t a big spender. But why the hell else would a man ask for a prenup? The whole point was to protect your financial assets. There had to be more to the story. And I couldn’t help but be curious. Really, really curious.
“You really have no idea why he asked for a prenup?”
“I mean, yeah,” she said, hesitant, “I have an idea.”
“I told you about Greta. I think it’s only fair that you tell me about Tyler.”
“You’ll think it’s stupid,” she said. “Or that I’m spoiled or conceited or something.”
I already knew she wasn’t stupid. And spoiled? By what? A complimentary bullet with every car purchase? “I promise I won’t think you’re stupid or conceited or spoiled.”
She glanced at me. “In that case, can I ask you an awkward question?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
I was taken aback. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who cared what people thought of her looks. “Yeah,” I said, a little embarrassed. “I do.”
“And you said that you think women can be gold diggers, right?”
“I didn’t meanallwomen. I just meant that there are women out there who only go after men for their money.”
“And what if you put the shoe on the other foot? Do you think there are men out there who only go after women for their looks?”
Thanks to Dad, it was the easiest question I’d been asked in ten years. “Yes,” I said. “No question.”
“Pick up my phone and pull up the camera roll.”
I did as told. “Am I looking for anything in particular?” I said as I began scrolling through what seemed like an endless theater of birds.
“Yeah,” she said. “When you get past the birds, there are some pictures from a vacation I took last summer. Have a look.”
I scrolled through about a thousand pictures before I finally found a batch dated from the end of July. They were mostly taken on beaches and boats, and mostly with Clara wearing sundresses and bikinis.
I stopped on a picture of Clara and another woman standing on a boardwalk, arms around each other’s backs. Clara looked pretty damn nice in a strapless sundress. And with her long hair hanging loose and messy over her tanned shoulders, I could reaffirm that she was very attractive.
But she was nothing compared to the other woman. Her companion was absolutely stunning. Busty. Torso like an hourglass. Radiant blue eyes. Full, pouty lips straight out of a lipstick ad. Long, thick brown hair down to her elbows. Cheekbones to die for. She looked a lot like Clara, but a little older. And about ten times as beautiful.
I tried to sound casual. “This person here,” I said, holding up the phone for her to see. “You look a lot alike. Is she your sister?”
“No,” she said. “She’s my mother.”
