“Out!” I stood and pointed to the hall.
“I’m going, I’m going. The tabloids will probably unearth your secrets and twist them into soap-opera levels of scandal, but sure, keep them to yourself. Why should I know about your life, right?”
With that, Lachlan shut the door behind him.
Leaving me with my anger and regrets.
My least favorite bedfellows.
ChapterNineteen
OLIVIA
I believed in miracles—waterinto wine, divine healings, the return of boy bands. And Paolo of Paolo Giancarlo’s Menswear opening his shop for me after closing time on Wednesday night.
Why had the owner of the South’s trendiest, most elite men’s boutique—one that had a three-month waitlist for appointments—agreed to open his shop for me? Might’ve been my desperate prayers. Might’ve been all the exclamation points I’d inserted into my text. Or might’ve been that I’d known Paolo Giancarlo since the third grade when he went by the name Paul Green. One time in elementary school I’d picked him for my kickball team first instead of last, and the boy had never forgotten it. Celeste always told me to save owed favors for the important times. Lachlan’s situation certainly qualified.
I’d worked late, so Lachlan had met me at Paolo’s at nine. This after-hours rendezvous also conveniently decreased our chances of attracting reporters.
The chilly evening air blew Lachlan’s long hair as he stood at the entrance of the shop and watched me approach. “Hey,” he said.
I took in Lachlan’s wardrobe selection and knew Paulo would have a conniption at the baggy jeans,Minecraftt-shirt, and hoodie large enough to double as a tent. “I hope I didn’t interrupt a game or whatever it is you do in your spare time,” I said.
His amused gaze remained steady on my face. “I was composing a list of wifely duties I wanted my old ball and chain to perform.”
“Like choking you in your sleep?”
Lachlan held open the door. “Like putting little love notes in my lunch, folding my laundry to my specifications, and bringing me a cigar and slippers when I get home.”
“Is this before or after you take an unfortunate tumble down your staircase?”
Lachlan grinned as the September chill followed us inside. “I’m learning you express love through hostility. By golly, it’s adorable.”
“My pretend husband issonot getting pretend lucky tonight.” I sauntered past a grinning Lachlan and went to find Paolo.
The shop owner glanced at his gold watch as I approached. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.” I kissed each of Paolo’s smooth cheeks. “Celeste asked me to pick up her dry cleaning after work, and one of the kids had a cooking class.”
He air-kissed my cheeks in return. “Why are you still working for that shrew?”
“Because I hope to take over her empire one day.”
Paolo caught sight of Lachlan, who’d gotten distracted by a display of pink loafers. “Your tardiness gave me time to catch up on the internet gossip.” My friend’s shrewd gaze roamed up and down Lachlan’s form. “Olivia Sutton, what have you gone and done?”
Wasn’t that just the question of the year. “Apparently I went and got married.”
“Why couldn’t you go to Vegas and bring back debt and a Barry Manilow t-shirt like the rest of us?” Paolo’s eyes narrowed when Lachlan moved on to inspect a rack of plaid jackets. “One day you simply must tell me the full story.”
“One day.” I smiled sadly at my friend. “But not today.” Lachlan approached, looking completely out of place in a store full of expensive men’s fashion. “Paolo, this is my…” Good heavens, would I ever get used to the word? “Husband.”
“Is it now?” Paolo shook Lachlan’s hand. “How interesting to meet you.”
“Thank you for letting us stop by tonight.” Lachlan slipped his arm around my shoulders, and I was so tired I nearly leaned into him. After our kitchen conversation, I found little energy to fuel animosity toward Lachlan. I’d lived with a violent dislike for the man for years, so it was a curious shift. I’d barely slept the last few nights, keenly aware that only a wall separated me from my new husband. Perhaps we could blame my lack of scorn on fatigue.
“Oh, my.” Paolo walked a circle around Lachlan, clucking and shaking his head. When the revolution was complete, he did it once more. “Olivia, is this what all his clothes are like?”
“No,” I said. “He also wears ironically bad concert t-shirts.”
