Marty kissed me. “That’s where he’s wrong. You are anything but boring. You’ve revived me.”
That was exactly what I needed to hear him say.
Chapter 11
Over the next few days, Marty and I got in the habit of walking the beach and talking. We always started from the north end of the public beach and strolled south, right past my former house. I liked being seen with such a good-looking man. I wanted people to know that my life wasn’t over just because someone like Brennan was trying to divorce me. It was simply a lot of fun to be with a guy like Marty, who listened and made me feel wanted. What a change from Brennan.
Some days, I agreed to jog on the beach because I knew Marty preferred the faster pace. I wanted to prove I could keep up with him. It was the competitive streak of a girl raised by a man who had wanted a son. Some days I ran hard on the sand, making my heart race. Marty appreciated the effort. Brennan never would’ve even noticed.
I wondered why I was trying so hard to please Marty; then I realized just how serious my feelings were for him. He’d rescued me and changed the trajectory of my life, and I was actually happy. It was incredible.
The one thing that seemed to interrupt my joy was when I flashed back to my life with Brennan.
It’s hard to explain, but every time I saw the house from the beach, I got a little angrier. I know there are people in the world with much more serious problems. I had my health, a new boyfriend, and a lot more life to live, but it sure would have been nice if that house had been part of my life. I could picture Marty sitting by the pool or working on house plans in the den.
Just when I thought I couldn’t get more annoyed, one day we noticed Brennan getting ready to pull out of the driveway. He wasn’t in the Jag. The bastard was driving a brand-new Bentley. A black Bentley Mulsanne that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. He’d bought a more formal car to go with his convertible.
Marty and I were running out on dinner tabs and this son of a bitch had a car for every occasion. Something just wasn’t right about it.
Marty said, “What an asshole. Anyone under seventy who drives a Bentley is, by definition, an asshole.”
I reached out and gripped his hand. Marty really was on my side. His face was red and he looked like he was ready to burst through the gate next to the bungalow and charge Brennan in his brand-new Bentley.
Marty said, “I could punch that guy in the face.”
I stared at Marty, wondering how serious he was. He stepped toward the gate, and I reached out to hold his arm. We watched as Brennan, oblivious to the world as usual, pulled out and drove away in the Bentley.
Marty took a breath and shook his head. “I should welcome you to the club.”
“What club?”
“The getting screwed in your divorce club.”
His color had already come back, showing off his pleasant tan complexion, and there was a hint of a smile on his face. He looked like he had just been blowing off steam and Brennan was a convenient target.
Then Marty said, “Don’t worry, it gets better.”
“Really?”
“It did for me.”
“How long does it take?”
“It got better as soon as I met you.”
I had to kiss this sweet man.
But thinking about the house and Brennan’s new car, I did wonder about what, exactly, that jerk deserved. Not just in the divorce, but in life as well.
Chapter 12
On Friday of that week, I saw Brennan again. This time at Family Court in the Palm Beach County Courthouse. Even though Brennan didn’t feel like family to me anymore. He gave me a smirk when I walked in with my attorney.
The judge had read both sides’ briefs, and I felt confident he’d grant our motion to throw out the prenup.
I listened quietly while the attorneys answered questions about the progress of the divorce and who would be testifying today. All three of Brennan’s high-priced attorneys against my cute little mama’s boy from Boca Raton, whose mother was my hairdresser and had said he was good and cheap. And that he needed the work.
My attorney shuffled nervously through papers as I looked over at Brennan’s crowded table. Brennan was impeccably dressed in one of his many dark Ralph Lauren suits, but hadn’t been able to resist the typical Palm Beach touch of a turquoise flowered tie. Not a power tie. He didn’t need one.
My chance to testify had finally come. It wasn’t in the witness box like I had imagined. The judge instructed me to stand right next to where I was sitting and answer his questions.
The older, dignified man kept looking down at some notes, until finally he said, “Mrs. Moore, has your attorney explained the three main reasons that are grounds for dismissing a prenuptial agreement?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you understand that duress means the agreement was presented too close to the date of the marriage, or some similar issue?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And coercion would be like offering ultimatums, and fraudulent financial disclosure explains itself.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded. “Very well, let’s get started.” Now he gave me his full attention and said, “Mrs. Moore, what did you do for a living before your marriage?”
“I was in marketing.”
“And do you have a college degree?”
“From Rutgers, yes, sir.”
The judge said, “Ah, a Scarlet Knight, very good. I’m from Trenton. We’re the only state without a university named after it.”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t know what else to say. At least he was trying to put me at ease.
“And would you say your income was low, high, or average?”
I kept focusing on breathing and keeping cool. “Average, Your Honor.” I paused and added, “To low average.”
The judge nodded and wrote down
