“Anyway, we’re not here to sue you,” I continue. “We just thought we’d pay a visit to catch up. How’s your old college buddy? What was his name . . . ?” I tap my lips, pretending to think. “Franklin Ashby?”

“How do you know him?” Brad responds just a little too quickly. His eyes dart from mine to Olivia’s, and his brow pinches unattractively.

Geez, what did she ever see in this pencil dick?

“Oh, come on,” Olivia chimes in. “You two were roommates all through undergrad. Always bro-ing it up. Did you forget I was your girlfriend then?”

While we were strategizing last night, inspiration struck me when Olivia mentioned the name of Brad’s college roommate. A name that I’d heard before, floating around New York’s elite social circles. It only took a few quick phone calls to confirm everything.

But even though Olivia gave me this whole idea, the last thing we need right now is a verbal firefight between the two of them. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened when he called her, and it got her nowhere. (Although it didn’t exactly get Brad anywhere either.)

So I wave my hand in Olivia’s direction to stop her. Just let me do the talking for a little longer, baby.

I start explaining to Brad exactly how screwed he is. “About six months ago, just before his company’s big announcement, your friend Ashby exercised his stock options and purchased almost a quarter million shares. He made a killing.” I rub my chin. “Funny, I seem to remember you doing pretty well too. Your stock trades even went through in the same week. Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?”

“How do you know that?” Too late, Brad tries to recover. “I mean, what are you implying?”

“To answer your first question, Frank likes to brag when he’s got a few drinks in him,” I reply with a cheerful shrug. “And to your second question, insider trading.”

The color drains from Brad’s face. “You have no proof!”

I suppress a triumphant grin. “Maybe not right now. But the private investigator I hired to sift through the stock trade records for Frank’s company and verify the personal connection between you two?” I suck my teeth with a loud tsking noise. “Within a few days, he’ll have enough evidence for probable cause. And then you can explain to the SEC why you and Frank both purchased so many shares with such convenient timing.”

That last part isn’t strictly accurate. We haven’t had time to hire a PI yet, although we can get one fast if we have to. But the truth doesn’t matter. What matters is whether my bluff is convincing enough to get under Brad’s skin. And judging by his reaction . . .

Brad’s mouth opens and closes a few times.

Yeah, I’d say I’ve hit the nail on the head. I take the moment to enjoy the sight—the haughty heir of Daniels Media doing his best impression of a fish out of water.

“Th-this is a total crock of shit and you know it,” he finally huffs out, placing a hand on his desk to lean in closer. “You both know I have you bent over, ready to take it, and this is how you’re fighting back? Pathetic.”

“You want to know what’s pathetic?” I step closer to the asshat. Not because I particularly relish being near him, but because my six-foot-two-inch frame towers over his, what, five foot nine? It’s bound to be intimidating. “The fact that Olivia here trusted you with pictures of her two gorgeous lemon-meringue pies and peach cobbler, and you, like the soulless weasel you are, tried to betray that trust in the worst possible way. Nothing gets me more livid than men who lack respect for women.”

“Peach cobbler?” Brad asks.

When Olivia shoots me a strange look, I press on. “Yes, you know—her love box, her pink clam, her honey pot.”

They’re both looking at me with puzzled expressions.

I turn up my palms in exasperation. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Her pickle jar.”

A giggle tumbles from Olivia’s lips.

God, I love putting a smile on that woman’s face.

Feigning a sudden realization, Olivia raises her finger, lips parting in pleasant surprise. “Oh, Noah! That reminds me of something.”

“Yes, dear?” I ask, playing along.

“There’s more.”

“More? Do tell, Snowflake.”

“I just remembered that one time, when Brad was asleep, I snapped a picture of his little pickle.”

Brad lets out a strangled noise.

Pretending not to notice—even though I’m struggling to keep a straight face—I raise my eyebrows at Olivia. “How little are we talking here?”

“Tiny. More like a miniature dill. A gherkin.” She grins, knowing we’re on a roll.

I let myself chuckle, the tense mood evaporating almost all at once. I have no idea if she’s telling the truth, but we have this jackass right where we want him.

“No way! She doesn’t have a picture of me,” Brad stammers.

“Oh, but I do.” She grins again. “It’s such a teensy little thing, it almost slipped my memory.”

I pat him on the back. “Tough luck, buddy, getting stuck with such a short straw. You’re an eligible bachelor, right? You wouldn’t want half of New York seeing that little dick of yours, would you?”

He purses his mouth. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” I pat him on the back again because, somehow, this meeting has turned into us saving the pompous Bradford Daniels from a public embarrassment so great, he’d never outrun it.