chapter
ONE
There’s a reason why romantic movies only show the beginning of people’s love stories. That’s the exciting part: the thrill, the magic. There is something undeniably enticing about the ripe sense of possibility. What will their life become now that they’ve found each other?
Well, Rebecca Lindt could tell them. They had about a one-third chance of maintaining their happily-ever-after, a one-third chance of staying married but being miserable about it, and a one-third likelihood of ending up in front of someone like her, battling it out over who gets to keep the Le Creuset pot collection or the riding lawn mower, even though neither of them cooks or cuts their own grass.
Today’s battle of the exes was over a crotch-sniffing standard poodle that somehow had made it into the office and the divorce mediation session. The wife was claiming the dog was her Official Emotional Companion (the words always spoken with utter reverence and implied capitalization by her lawyer) and therefore had to remain with her. Rebecca’s client, Anthony, was vibrating with barely leashed anger as he tried to explain through clenched teeth to the mediator that his wife had always hated the dog and that the poodle should remain with him.
Prince Hairy, the fluffy beast in question, didn’t seem to care either way. He just wanted to hunt beneath the table and give a filthy how-do-you-do with a wet nose to the private parts of every person in the meeting. Rebecca sent up a silent thank-you that she was wearing a pantsuit, but that hadn’t stopped her from feeling slightly assaulted every time the dog moved her way.
A wet tongue licked her ankle, sending a shudder through her, and she gently shooed the dog away, trying to keep her expression unhorrified and professional. But Raul, the other attorney, lifted a knowing brow at her. She had no doubt he’d be telling her later that she owed the dog a drink for all the action.
“Prince Hairy has been with us since he was a puppy,” the wife said, her tone curt, as if she was biting the words in half. “I named him. I take him to the groomer. He’s home with me when you’re at work. My therapist says that he’s part of my recovery. He is my Official Emotional Companion.”
“Emotional companion,” Anthony sneered, his calm breaking. “Come on, Daphne. Your emotional companion was the goddamned contractor you screwed in my bed!”
“Mr. Ames,” the mediator said, a schoolteacher-style warning in her voice. “You both chose mediation to avoid court, but in order for that to work, I need you to keep the accusations—”
Anthony scoffed. “Accusations? They’re not accusations if they’re true.”
Rebecca placed a staying hand on Anthony’s arm, silencing him and sending her own warning message. I’ve got this. Calm down.
Anthony deflated beside her, and Rebecca took over. “I think what Mr. Ames is trying to say is that there is no paperwork designating Prince Hairy as an emotional companion. He may, perhaps, be a comfort to Mrs. Ames, but he is not an official therapy dog.” He was just Daphne’s best bargaining chip because Anthony was ridiculously in love with the canine menace. “Therefore, that should not factor into the decision of where Prince Hairy will live. The dog was adopted under Anthony’s name. He is the one to take him for walks and to vet visits. Since Mr. Ames plans to remain in the home, he’ll have adequate space for him.”
“What?” Daphne demanded, her words ripping through the veneer of her pretend calm. “Are you effing kidding me right now? You are not getting the house.”
Effing. Rebecca smirked. They’d all agreed to no foul language during mediation. Daphne was apparently willing to fudge on the rules like she’d fudged on her marriage vows.
The mediator gave a deep sigh, clearly questioning why she’d chosen such a career path in the first place. Fridays made one do that anyway, but this one was going for the gold medal of Fridayness. “Mrs. Ames, we all agreed to keep our voices at a normal level.”
But Daphne was having none of it. Her lips were puckered as if she’d sucked a lemon, and there was fire brewing in her blue eyes. A fuse ready to blow.
“I’m getting the house,” Anthony said simply.
Rebecca smiled inwardly. And three, two, one…
Daphne stood, her manicured hands pressed flat against the table and a dark lock of hair slipping out of her French knot. “You will not take my house from me, you worthless piece of shit. I just spent two years remodeling it.”
“And screwing the contractor.”
“Mr. and Mrs.—”
“It’s mine!” Her palm slapped the table, which earned a bark from Prince Hairy. “And I slept with Eric because you neglected me and were never home, and y
ou…you…” Her gaze zeroed in on Anthony as she found her weapon. “You were bad in bed!”
Anthony bristled, but Rebecca gripped his arm tighter, praying he’d weather the low blow. When well prepped, people could deal with a lot of insults in mediation or court, but she’d learned men had a figurative and literal soft spot when their manhood was called into question.
“Mrs. Ames,” the mediator admonished.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca said, her tone utterly calm, which would only make Daphne look more out of order. “Can we have a minute? I’d like a private word with my client, and I think everyone could use a break.”
The mediator’s shoulders sagged with resignation, and she adjusted her glasses. “Five-minute break. Everyone needs to come back ready to be civil, or we’re going to have to end the mediation and let this go to court.”
Daphne huffed, and Raul soothed her with gentle words as he offered her a bottle of sparkling water. She took a long sip, her gaze still shooting daggers at Anthony. Raul nodded at Rebecca. “We’re going to take a little walk and bring Prince Hairy out for a bathroom break. We’ll be back in five.”
“Thanks,” Rebecca said, knowing that taking the dog with him was their version of posturing—acting like the dog was Daphne’s already—but Rebecca wasn’t worried. This was all going exactly as she’d planned.
Once the door to the conference room shut, Anthony turned to her, his perfectly styled brown hair a mess from him raking his fingers through it. “I’m not bad in bed. She’s lying.”
“Anthony.”