CHAPTER SEVEN
DUFFY
The day after Riggs and I had booked our wedding was remarkably dreadful, even by my poor standards. The only ray of sunshine was that my neighbor Charlie was kind enough to leave me my favorite Starbucks order and a pastry at my door in the morning, accompanied by a scribbled-on napkin.
Saw a strange man entering your apartment yesterday. Just making sure you’re good, Angel.
I wasn’t good. I was the opposite of good. I couldn’t wait for the next time he and I went down the pub so I could unload. Charlie was a fab listener.
At work, Gretchen was an absolute nightmare, moaning and whining about everything under the sun (including, ironically, the sun itself; apparently, she’d been worried about dark spots ever since she’d started her retinol treatment).
I wondered if she was privy to my arrangement with Riggs. Not that breaking the news to her was high on my to-do list. I had bigger fish to fry. Like telling Mum, Tim, and Kieran I was tying the knot. And possibly slipping my neck into a noose in the process.
Don’t forget about BJ.Though, bitterly, there was no denying he’d forgotten about me.
Speaking of my traitorous ex-boyfriend, he called earlier today to ask if I could give him a lift to the airport. For a reason he refused to share, he had deplorable ratings on both Uber and Lyft.
“I refuse to be defined by cold ratings on a stupid app,” he had once told me when we discussed his aversion for the app. “I know my worth.” That worth, apparently, was less than a hundred bucks, which was the fare most cab companies asked for a trip to JFK, and BJ refused to pay.
The very idea of driving him anywhere was audacious. Especially as he’d used our time together at the Renaissance fair last night complaining about his mum wanting to sell his Range Rover while he was abroad. She’d promised to buy him a newer model once he was back, but BJ argued there was a backlog due to supply issues, and that public transportation gave him a rash.
Yes, I knew he was a rich prat. Frankly, that was his entire appeal. His ability to promise me a life full of security, lavish vacations, and beautiful houses.
Though stabbing him in the eye with my plastic sword had been my preferred response to his whinging, I’d chosen to remind myself that Kate and Wills had also split before the prince realized she was his one true love. Was Kate bitter about it? No. Did she throw a fit? Also no. That’s right. She kept it classy. And look at her now. A princess.
Which was how I found myself reassuring him that giving him a ride was no problem at all.
“When shall I pick you up?” I asked as I maneuvered my way among sweaty tourists and Instagram influencers who thought it was appropriate to walk the street in a bikini.
“Seven’s fine. I’m going for drinks with Dan beforehand,” I heard BJ say on the other side of the line.
I took a tiny bit of pleasure in how Riggs had referred to him as an indulgent Western idiot yesterday. My future husband seemed well traveled enough to recognize an eejit when he saw one.
“Give Dan my regards,” I said airily, wondering at what point, exactly, it was appropriate to tell your runaway boyfriend you were betrothed to another.
“Thanks, babe.”
“Oh, and BJ . . .” I stopped at a red pedestrian light. “There’s something we should talk about before—”
“Fuuuuuck!” he screamed, cutting into my words. “I just remembered! That asshole Quinton still has my good luggage. The Prada Mom gave me last Christmas? I gotta call him.”
Deep breaths. Kate and Wills. All the roads to happiness are bumpy.
“Right. Yes. The Prada luggage. Of course.”
“Gotta go, babe. I’ll see you at seven. Bye.”
The light turned green. I charged ahead, ready to rugby-tackle anyone in my way. My mobile rang again. Probably BJ wanting to know if I could pick up his dry cleaning on my way to him. Thankfully, it was Kieran.
I slid my AirPods into my ears, then swiped the screen and took the video call.
Kieran was leaning against the white-and-blue Formica of his fish-and-chips stand, a fag tucked behind his ear. He looked like an untended-to male version of me. With floppy overgrown hair and droopy violet eyes and a Joy Division tee that had seen better days. In the eighties.
“Lil sis!” he cooed.
“Stop calling me that, I’m literally five minutes younger than you.” I continued my march toward my flat, cutting through the stream of human bodies.
“You could’ve been two minutes younger than me, but no, you had to be breech. Always so special, Duffy.” He grinned at me. I smiled back. Mum still held a grudge against me for sending her for an emergency C-section after she’d had Kieran the way God intended. Apparently, I’d refused to cooperate with her doctor and flip to a head-down position, which earned me the nickname “Arsehole” in the family. Since I was butt down when the doctor cut Mum’s belly open and fished me out. What could I say? I’d been strong willed since day one.
“I have something to tell you.” I stopped in front of my building’s front door. Riggs was probably inside, and I didn’t want to have this conversation with him around. Unfortunately, every minute I was outside was a minute I spent sodden with sweat. Today really was unbearably hot.
Kieran pushed off the wall, greeted a client, and served them fish-and-chips while sighing, “BJ finally popped the question, huh? Took him long enough. Mum was getting worried he wasn’t serious about you.”
Kieran wasn’t insensitive per se. He was just . . . Kieran. Chronologically twenty-six, but mentally a decade younger. Other than co-owning the chippy with Mum’s husband, he didn’t have one responsible bone in his body. Still, his words hurt.
“BJ didn’t propose to me.” I cleared my throat. “But I am getting married.”
“Bit confused here. You may want to elaborate.” He popped open a bottle of Irn-Bru.
“I’m marrying someone else.” I licked my lips, averting my gaze to the redbrick building in front of me. “To stay in the States.”
“Christ, Duffy.” Kieran coughed out his drink. “To who?”
“A man.”
“Well, that narrows it down!” he thundered. “Who? When? How? Do we know him? Is he a friend of BJ’s?”
“What does it matter? It’s not real, is it?” I tried to sound pragmatic. “He seems like a reliable chap. Very . . .” Old. Chaotic. “Mature. Adventurous. And honestly, I don’t think he’s going to be around very much. He’s a photographer for a nature magazine.”
“What does BJ think about all this?” Kieran seemed somewhere between entertained and puzzled. If I was a go-getter, he was a stay-sitter. My antics always amused him.
“BJ and I are on a break,” I informed my brother, proud that my voice didn’t crack. “He’s going to Kathmandu to volunteer at a monastery.”
Kieran’s eyes were so wide and so big they looked like the mouth of a laundry machine. “Someone had an interesting forty-eight hours.”
That, I did. Saturday couldn’t roll soon enough. I needed to bury my face in my pillow and cry into Monday morning without interruption.
“Do you think Mum and Tim are going to kill me?” Tim was Mum’s husband. Actually, he was much more than that. He was like a father to me.
“Kill?” Kieran brushed his knuckles over his stubble, giving it some thought. “Seems a bit drastic. But maybe, you know, take you out of their will or something.”
“Well, don’t tell them!”
“My lips are sealed.” He pretended to zip his mouth, then threw away the imaginary key behind his shoulder. “When are you going to tell them?”
“I’m thinking . . . never?” I winced. “It’s not like the marriage is real. I could bide my time until I get my green card and pretend this never happened.”
“Dunno. Marriage is noticeable, innit?” Kieran poked his lower lip out. “Sort of like plastic surgery. Or death.”
“Not this one.” I pushed the entrance door open, starting for my flat. “This marriage will be like a tampon.”
“Bloody and uncomfortable?”
I screwed my nose. “No one will ever know.”
“Bad example. I always knew when you had your period,” Kieran mused gamely. “You went mental and became the Antichrist, and no Cadbury chocolate bar was safe under our roof.”
“You’ll see.” I ignored him. “It’s going to be a piece of cake.”
It was not, in fact, a piece of cake. Though there might have been a cake involved.
There was an actual party in my flat.
A smelly one. All sorts of odors hit me when I pushed the door open. None of them the signature Jo Malone London candle I’d shelled out a hundred bucks on.
There were also two women queueing for my loo (just who was occupying it?), two suited men on my settee, a dog on my recliner (not even a tiny one from an expensive breed; I’m talking a proper, seventy-pound beast that also looked quite old and blind), and a half-eaten pizza spread across my coffee table and counter.
I dumped my Chanel bag onto the floor, the chain clinking softly at my feet.
A toddler burst out of my loo, naked from the waist down and holding a toy dragon.
“I did it, Daddy! I did a big poo in the real potty all by myself!”
“Actually, some of the floor and wall got hit too,” confirmed one of the women, who hastily slipped into my bathroom with wet wipes. “I’ll go clean it up.”
Her golden-haired friend ran after the toddler, calling out, “Hey, Louie, come here. No, no. You definitely can’t sit on the couch before I clean you up.”
I was going to have three consecutive heart attacks followed by a mental breakdown.
“Louie!” Riggs scooped the child midrun like he was a puppy, tossing him in the air. He barely missed the ceiling. “The potty, the wall, and the floor? That’s talent, my friend. Let’s celebrate with a treat. Ice cream?”
“Digno wants cookies!” Louie erected his little fisted toy in the air, almost taking one of Riggs’s eyes out with his dragon.
“How about that? I’ll stock this fridge up with all of your favorite junk food from now on.”
“Hey, Riggs, can you make some popcorn?” one of the men asked. “I want something to munch on when your future wife sees all this. And this time try not to set the whole kitchen on fire. Doubt she has insurance on this place.”
I didn’t have any insurance. And this wasn’t a dumpster. Panic and rage simmered in my veins, making my blood boil.
Since no one acknowledged my existence—or noticed it, for that matter—I took a step deeper into the living room and crossed my arms. The stench intensified from unpleasant to dumpster fire. Were they boiling skunks in here? What was that smell?
“Oops!” The blonde woman snatched little Louie from Riggs’s arms. “Honey, can you take Brisket out for a walk and see if she needs to go? I think she farted again. Poor thing.” She stopped to pet the dog on my vintage recliner on her way to the bathroom. “It’s not easy being seventeen, now, is it, girl?”
“It’s also not easy to be married to a woman who always adopts the oldest, sickest dog in the shelter.” A dark-haired man stood up and expertly secured a harness over the canine. He was the sort of man who dripped wealth just by existing. Something about his unrelenting confidence and ruthless poise. He kissed the blonde’s forehead gently on his way out.
Tall, Dark, and Probably a Billionaire passed by me with the dog, shooting me a cynical smile. His eyes were flatlined, devoid of any warmth or emotion. “Guess you’re the unlucky girl. My condolences.” He tipped an imaginary hat and left.
Which was when everybody collectively realized I was there and the commotion started.
I tried not to let the fact I looked like a soggy sock bother me. After all, I couldn’t give a toss what they all thought, could I?
“You must be Duffy.” The man next to Riggs stood up, sticking out his hand. “I’m Christian. Congratulations.”
“What for?” I inquired politely, shaking his hand.
He let out a delighted laugh, jerking his thumb in my direction. “I like her.”
“Oh my God, is she here?” The dark-haired woman traipsed out of my bathroom, the wipe bag in her hand now empty. She looked glamorous and wore this season’s Valentino, and I wondered just where Riggs had found these fancy mates of his.
“Hello, I’m Arya, Christian’s wife. I’ve heard so much about you. Thanks for taking him off our hands.”
She reached to shake my hand. I complied on autopilot.
Why on earth did these people talk like we were a real couple? And how could she possibly hear about me? Riggs and I didn’t know each other.
“I’d say my pleasure, but I’m not sure that it is.” I glanced around me, shell shocked.
The blonde woman returned with a much-cleaner Louie in her arms. “Howdy, I’m Winnie. Arsène’s wife.”
Who is Arsène? Am I even in the right flat?
She put the (now clothed) toddler down and hugged me. I froze in her embrace, overwhelmed with good intentions and compliments. These people needed to be gone. I still had to shower, doll up, cry hysterically, redo my makeup, and drive BJ to the airport.
“Riggs?” I asked through a tight smile. “May I speak to you privately?”
“Sure, if we can find somewhere private in this shoebox.” He raised his eyebrows à la I’m in trouble (which won him some laughs) and swaggered my way. I proceeded into my bedroom. He closed the door behind him, then leaned against it. When I turned around to face him, the force of his beauty hit me like a freight train.
I reminded myself he was a corrupted man of questionable scruples. If anything, he was distastefully good looking. It was appalling, really. I was certain you couldn’t look like that and not be a professional knobhead. And he was. He’d had an affair with a married woman.
Confident I’d got myself sufficiently riled up against him, I proceeded to pick a fight.
“How dare you?” I exploded.
He stared at me, puzzled. “How dare I . . . ?”
“Throw a party in my flat!”
“It’s not a party. Just a gathering of a few old friends. ’Sides, you were the one who said ‘Mi casa es tu casa,’ kid.” He ruffled my hair with a laugh, like I was an adorable pup.
“I’ve never said that!” I waved my balled fists in his face, frantic with rage. “Mi casa will never be tu casa. Tu has no casa. This was what landed both of us in this unfortunate situation. All I said was you could crash on my sofa, rent-free. This place is not designed to entertain.”
A skeptical smile tickled the corners of his lips. His crate-size dimples made a guest appearance. My goodness, he was a treat to look at. Maybe not a treat. A full-blown dessert. Perhaps . . . a five-tier cake? Yeah, that sounded about right.
I couldn’t recognize myself in my attraction to him. I wasn’t the same obsessively ambitious girl who studied her way to a full scholarship at Cambridge so she could buy herself a one-way ticket from poverty through career opportunities and the chance to bag herself a rich husband.
With Riggs, I was different. Impulsive. Emotional . . . quite frankly, a mess.
“Why not? Don’t worry, I made sure the body bags were tucked all the way behind the frozen meats in the freezer.”
“It’s too small!” I stomped. I’d never let myself stomp with BJ. It was so unbecoming.
“Welcome to New York.” He spread his arms. “Where dreams are big and the real estate is minuscule.”
“I’m too tidy for company,” I whined. Another first I wasn’t used to doing.
“Tidy is a trait, not a quality. I’m ridding you of bad habits. Thank me later.”
“Well, it’s mine!” I cried out, ready to throttle him. “Tell them to bugger off. I’ve got to jump in the shower.”
“What for? You already seem pretty wet to me.”
“Oh, you arse!” I shoved at his chest. Well, this was a mistake. His pecs were magnificent. I actually felt the individual ridges between them. And I couldn’t make him budge an inch. “I have to drive BJ to the airport.”
“Shame. My friends really wanted to meet you.” He seemed genuine, which was quite disturbing.
“About that . . .” I frowned. “Why are they acting like this is all real?”
He tipped his head back, laughing. “To piss me off, probably. I was the last man standing, see.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
“Pissed off?” He looked at me funny, like the answer was obvious. “Giving someone the emotional reaction they’re shooting for means losing, and I’m no loser. Go get showered, Poppins. I’ll kick them out. Don’t worry about it.”
Astonishingly, this made me feel like a complete twat. I expected him to push back, to hurl insults at me, to tell me I was being difficult and prissy.
“Fine, but when I come out, we’re making a house rules sheet. A laminated one.” I wiggled my finger in his face.
“The fun just never ends with you.” He dropped his gaze down to my cleavage and gave me a big, wolfish grin. “I love it when you talk dirty to me, wifey.”
Half an hour later I felt marginally better, once I was in clean, dry clothes after a cold, refreshing shower. By the time I exited the bathroom, the flat was sort of tidy, but it still smelled like a sweaty, infested crotch. Riggs, in his perpetual good mood, was whistling to himself while stuffing pizza cartons into a bin bag.
He stopped and watched as I shoved my feet into my Louboutin sandals. I stole a glance at his face. I couldn’t help it. It was like running your tongue over the same mouth ulcer, even though you knew it’d hurt. He raised his eyebrows with a friendly smile. “See something you like?”
“Oh, drop dead.”
“I’m about to marry you. That seems close enough.”
Flushed, I hurried to change the subject. “I think our first rule should be no pets.” I stood up and walked over to my laptop.
“Does your landlord forbid it?”
“Haven’t asked.” I began typing. “But it doesn’t matter. The place is too small, and animals are filthy. They do terrible things to fabrics.”
“And awesome things to the soul,” he countered, but when I shot him a scowl, he raised his palms. “Fine. Souls are overrated. No pets. I’m always on the go, anyway. It wouldn’t be fair to them.”
“The second rule is no bringing home hookups,” I proceeded. I knew I would have absolutely no issue fulfilling this part of the bargain. My sex life was nonexistent before BJ, during BJ, and assumingly after BJ. Riggs, on the other hand, was a lovely, outgoing creature. Gorgeous and warm. I bet he slept with loads of women, all the time. I didn’t care to meet any of them over morning coffee while I was getting ready for work.
“Is this two sided?” Riggs arched an eyebrow.
“Of course!” I huffed. “I’m fair.”
“Are you?” He double tied the trash bag and brought it over to the door.
“Very fair,” I confirmed with a nod.
“Then I have a rule too.”
“What’s your rule?”
“No more than three rules.” He threw his slow sexy grin behind his shoulder. The one I suspected compelled women to offer him a kidney. “That’s all you get.”
“Why?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“Because what you need right now is as few rules as possible, and to have a whole lot of fun. You’re about to be single for six months. Live a little.”
Putting my fingers to my wrist, I pretended to examine my pulse. “Sorry to disappoint, but my vitals seem quite good.” Then, remembering he was committing a federal offense for me, I sighed. “All right. One more rule. But you accept rule number two, right? No bringing bloody women into my apartment?”
He held my gaze. “You have my word they will not be bloody.”
“Riggs!”
“Fine. Or that they will exist at all.”
Phew.This left me with one more rule. I felt like a poor kid at a candy store. How could I possibly choose?
I peeked at my mobile. I needed to leave in the next ten minutes if I wanted to be on time for BJ.
Think, Duffy, think.
Then, eureka! Creativity struck. My fingers flew over my keyboard.
“You look way too pleased to be typing this one down.” Riggs had an indulgent smirk on his face as he leaned a shoulder over the wall, watching me from his vantage point of being seven foot four or whatever. “What is it?”
“No fraternizing with your spouse.” I hit the print button, then listened to the printer on the credenza spewing out our house rules sheet. “This means you absolutely cannot try to hit on me, flirt with me, or pursue me sexually. And vice versa, of course,” I said after a slight pause, realizing it was silly to assume this real-life Adonis was going to fancy me.
“I’m going to try, but I gotta tell you, everything in this place screams sex.” He gestured toward my decorative pillows, scented candles, and fresh flowers on the coffee table.
Rolling my eyes, I stood up and plucked the sheet from the printer. This was getting double laminated, just in case. “And another thing.”
“Hit me.”
Don’t tempt me.
I took my time getting the sheet sealed, then plastering it over the fridge, so he couldn’t miss it.
“This is not a rule, but a preference. Under this roof, you’re going to start eating your greens. You’re not so young anymore. You can’t eat pizza and cookies for eternity. There’s a veggie casserole in the fridge. I expect it to be gone by the time I come back.”
“Does that mean I can throw it straight into the trash?”
“If by trash you mean your gut, then yes.”
“Okay, Mom.”
We both stood in front of the fridge, examining our list.
House Rules
No pets
No hookups
No fraternizing with your spouse
Now that looked like a good marriage to me.