Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride

His jeans were tailored, and his fawn-colored leather vest had never been dirtied by an honest day’s work.

Not only was he driving home, but he wanted to keep his wits about him. Leaning back in his chair, he tried not to scowl. There was nothing like being the only sober person in the room to make sure you had a dandy time.

The whole idea of a pre-nup didn’t make sense to him. Maybe he was old fashioned, but he thought marriage should be about love and partnership and spending your life together. He supposed premarital agreements were prudent, like looking for the emergency exits when you got on a plane. Not that the escape route mattered if you were going down in flames.

Time and again, he’d said that he didn’t want her to crawl into the grave beside him. If he died, he wished for her to honor his memory by living life to the fullest.

“I got my daisies,” she said, “even though Neil wanted orchids.” That made sense. Orchids were hothouse flowers, expensive and delicate. Angela was a daisy person—cheerful and bright.

If he’d still be a drinker, he might have had more fun on his night out with old buddies at a bar.