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I take my credit card and stuff it in my wallet as I exit the cafe, sliding my sunglasses down over my eyes, as I head into the paparazzi. They bombard me with questions, cameras clicking, people touching me. The crowds gather, but the valet is there, and then the security from the restaurant comes to help—this is the cafe to the stars, they know how to deal—and I slip into the Range Rover, check traffic, and pull out onto Santa Monica, heading west.

I’d like to forget about her.

That’s a lie. I’d like to fly to Denver right now and f**k that girl until she relents and lets me boss her around.

I chuckle a little because she hates the bossing. I get it. Lots of girls hate it. But I’m half joking about it with Grace. I can take no for an answer, but not all the f**king time. She wants to say no to me just to say no. And while I like to spar with her, it bugs me that she’s so combative. Can’t she see I’m playing? I’m not sure if she’s pretending to be offended by the money, or if she really is.

Isn’t that why she works? Isn’t that why everyone works? To make money and pay bills, and do new things, or take care of kids?

I’m not out to offend her. I just wanted to help her

I dial her phone again, and again, it goes to voicemail. “Why can’t you just say thank you? Why can’t you just feel good about the money? Why can’t you just enjoy it?” I hang up and wait to see if she calls me back.

I don’t want to squash her independent nature and I like her feistiness. I wonder how feisty she can be in bed when she’s not getting f**ked publicly. I’d like to find that out and I’d like to find that out right now.

But I put on my blinker and turn right at Laurel Canyon to head up into the hills. I’ve got meetings and she’s got a job. I try and remember how long it’s been since I was dating a woman with an actual job. Someone who was not paid to hang out and wait for me to show up.

Wait, did I just refer to this as dating?

We’re not dating. I shake my head and laugh. I don’t date, and not only that, long-distance relationships never work. And I’d never date a girl in Denver, for f**k’s sake. Denver. No. Colorado is a place you go on vacation. You ski there, you don’t date girls there. You might f**k some girls there, and I do plan on f**king Miss Kinsella there. But that’s not dating. I don’t know what this is, a friendship maybe. But it’s not dating.

I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any messages, but no. She’s not calling me back. That’s OK. I will leave her alone so she can work today, but if that woman thinks I’m going to walk away from our sex tweeting tonight, she’s mistaken.

Ten minutes later I pull up to the gates of my modern mid-century home and the security guards let me through with a smile and a wave. I have a tuxedo fitting later this afternoon, but the tailor comes to the house, so I plan on spending my day at the pool thinking up ways to make Miss Kinsella blush and wiggle with one hundred and forty characters.

Chapter Six

SomeAssholesAreBrilliant

I THROW my purse down on the table near the front door, kick off my heels, and flop down on my couch. Exhausted.

Walking to work this morning was fun and exciting, but the reality is that I need my car during the day to meet people. So all that musing over living and working local was just bullshit. I can’t ride the bus to meet clients. It’s stupid. Just stupid. It took me forever to get over to Park Hill today, and I was totally late because I had forgotten that I didn’t drive. And instead of going home and picking up my car, I insisted that I try to get around without one.

Denver has no real train system, so public transportation is not an option like it is in bigger cities. So now I live two blocks from work and I’ll still have to drive every day.

The future Mrs. Blazen—who actually does have a name and it’s Kristi—was a mess. A total mess. All that fake happiness on the phone was just that. Fake. She tried to force the smile with me too, but in person you can see she’s having a very hard time dealing. She’s pregnant for one, and that’s why all this hush-hush stuff with the wedding, and she’s far enough along for everyone to know that she got herself knocked up by this Blazen guy months before the divorce was final.

She was on the verge of tears the entire time. Everything I asked, from what kind of music she liked to what color flowers she would prefer, her eyes filled up. I can’t say for sure, but I think some of that is the pregnancy hormones and some of that is guilt. And she deserves to feel guilty. Women who sleep with married men are scum in my mind.

As are men who cheat.

I didn’t actually meet the infamous Johnny Blazen because he doesn’t live there with Kristi, he still lives in the house he shared with his previous wife in Cherry Creek. I’m hoping I can get all the way to the wedding without meeting him, actually. He seems like an ass**le, and the future Mrs. Blazen, who does actually call herself that, could do a lot better in my opinion.

At least the wedding should be relatively easy to plan. They’re eloping to Vegas. Well, technically they’re eloping, but it’s going to be planned to the nines. No drive-through wedding for Kristi and Johnny.

No, a fountain terrace affair at the Bellagio is what Kristi wants. And why she needs me to do this is puzzling, because the Bellagio has its own wedding coordinator.

My phone buzzes and I cringe. I’ve been thinking up excuses all day for Asher. Jesus, that man has some nerve. But when I glance down at my phone, it’s Bebe, so I smile and say, “Hola, bitch. Tell me my life is fabulous so I don’t forget how long I’ve worked to climb my way up to the bottom rung of the ladder.”