Her confession plays on a loop in my head the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stone
* * *
Age 21
* * *
“I put your mail on the counter.” Jovie peeks her head into my room. It’s been five days since Jude fucked around on her, and I’ve yet to be able to look her in the eye once. Watching the two of them prance around the apartment—flirting and grabbing each other’s asses and stealing kisses—all the while knowing what happened … is weighing heavily on my mind.
“Thanks,” I say from my desk, keeping my back to her.
“We’re ordering Chinese tonight.” She’s still here. “Did you want the usual?”
“I’m good.”
“It’s Jade Garden,” she says, her voice sing-songy. “Your favorite …”
“I’m good,” I repeat.
“Oh. We’re going to that indie flick later, the one about the ambulance driver and the heart transplant patient, if you want to come with?”
I imagine Jude’s only seeing that one out of pure guilt. Ordinarily they’d be catching the latest Marvel flick or anything starring Liam Neeson, Denzel Washington, or Mark Wahlberg.
“I’ve got a paper due Monday, so …”
“We can wait until next weekend to see it.”
“I can catch it later this week. You two go on without me.”
Silence lingers between us. I glance behind me to see if she’s gone, but she’s just standing there, her hands jammed into her back pockets and her expression baked in deflated sadness. Sadness that’s directed at me, not the man who stuck his dick in crazy behind her back.
“Do me a favor and get the door, will you?” I ask, hoping she takes the hint.
“Sure.” She steps into the hall, tugging the door shut behind her. I wait for her footsteps to follow a few seconds later.
A week ago, I’d have ordered Chinese with them and went to the damn movie.
Now it doesn’t feel right.
And I can’t spend another day watching the only woman I give a damn about in the arms of a fool who doesn’t know how good he has it.
She should be in my arms.
Not his.
And she’ll never know it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Stone
* * *
“Mr. Atwood, your one o’clock is here,” my assistant pages me over my phone.
“Send him back.” I reach for the file folder Becca left on my desk the other week. I meant to glance over everything sooner, but I’ve been swamped.
There’s always been something in the air this time of year that makes people want to embark on life changes. Some people buy a house or a boat. Some people book a cruise. And then there are the ones who decide to divorce their spouses.
Maybe part of it has to do with being cooped up all winter. The cold season here is everlasting and unforgiving and, at times, isolating. It’s the ultimate marital stress test.
A man with jet black hair slicked back with some kind of pomade waltzes through my door. I rise from my chair, step out from behind my desk, and shake his hand.
“You must be Jason Whitlock,” I say. “Stone Atwood. I’m filling in for Becca today. Good to meet you.”
His grasp is firm. He’s wearing an insulting amount of expensive cologne and a cashmere sweater (never mind that it’s June).
“Please have a seat.” I point toward my guest chair and return to my own. “I’m not entirely familiar with your situation yet, so bear with me while I go through your documents.”
I flip the file folder open and scan the paperwork inside.
“It says here you originally filed with Wasser, Leeman and Smith,” I say. “Is there a reason you’re no longer working with them?”
“Yeah,” he says, crossing his legs wide and leaning back. His jaw is angled and his brows are heavy. “Negotiations weren’t going as well as I’d hoped. A buddy of mine recommended your firm. Said you were the best in town.”
That’s not the first time I’ve heard someone say that. In fact, the overwhelming majority of clients we take on heard of us from someone else. Word of mouth is the best advertising money can’t buy.
“And what exactly are you seeking from …” I scan the documents, searching for the name of the other party. My heart drops and my veins turn hot. “Jovie Annabeth Vincent.”
“Half of everything,” he says. “That’s how it works, right? You get married and what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours and that whole thing.”
“Not exactly.” My jaw is clenched as I attempt to maintain my composure. “The state of Maine isn’t a community property state, so marital assets aren’t typically divided fifty-fifty unless there was some kind of prenup in place or you’re able to make a compelling case to the court.”
“I thought it was an equitable distribution state?”
“Equitable distribution is not the same as equal distribution,” I say. “It simply means things are divided fairly.”
“All right. That shouldn’t be an issue then. It’s not like I’m asking for everything under the sun here. I’m just asking for enough to get myself back on my feet,” he says.