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.”

“Awww, the poor baby. She chats with a movie star last night and she’s feeling down today because her life is ordinary? Please. Your life is fantastic. And as much as I like to know about the new club parties you’ll be planning—I want regular invites, by the way—I’d like a little more info on this whole Twitter hacking that took place. Is that crazy or what?”

“Totally crazy,” I say, trying to feign excitement. I don’t want to talk with her about Vaughn. Meeting him was nothing like my dreams. He’s pushy, controlling, pompous, and rude.

And he put thirty-five grand into my accounts today.

Thirty-five grand. That’s more than I make in a year and he just put it into my bank and on my Starbucks card. I could put a down payment on a house with that—

“Earth to Grace? You still there?”

“Sorry, I think I lost the connection for a second. I don’t really know how that hacking stuff happened. I didn’t talk to him or anything, so—”

“What’s wrong?” Bebe says. Why did I think I could fool her? “You should be jumping up and down with excitement over this. Bitch, you tweeted with Vaughn Asher, the man you’ve been cyber-stalking for years. And you’re not fangirling!”

“I know!” I say back, trying my best to be excited. “But today was a crapper. My first day on the new job and I got a high-profile client who makes me sad in so many ways I can’t explain it. And I can’t even talk about it, because I had to sign a NDA to work with her.”

“Oh, Jesus. NDA, that’s some serious shit.”

“Yeah.” And it only further reminds me of Asher and what he’s offering. How do I go through twenty-three years of life never even saying the words non-disclosure agreement out loud to being asked to sign two of them in the same week?

At least the one for work is acceptable.

“—you hear me?”

“No, sorry, my mind wandered. What?”

“Steve and I are going to the mountains this weekend, wanna come?”

“Can’t, I gotta work on this new event. It’s taking place in two weeks and I’m the second planner, so I have a lot to do.”

She buys it, but the truth is, the future Mrs. Blazen has almost everything set up. I will not have to work very hard at all for this event. But the thought of being third wheel for Bebe’s fun trip to the mountains is too much. I can’t do it.

We chat for a few more minutes. Mostly it’s Bebe bitching me out for leaving the island and not telling her, and I agree, that sucked. I do not deserve to even defend myself because it was bullshit. And then we make up and say our good laters.

I set my phone on the coffee table and close my eyes, but no sooner have I done that than the door buzzer goes off. “Jesus, can’t I just get a moment?” I drag myself up and go over to the front door and press the intercom. “Yes?”

“Delivery for—” There’s a pause, like the guy is reading something. “Mrs. Invisible M? Is that you? It said apartment four, but—”

“It’s me.” I sigh heavily and then press the door buzzer. I open my door and stand there, waiting for the delivery guy, because if I sit back down, I might fall asleep. I can hear him trudging up the stairs, huffing like he’s out of breath, and then he comes into view and smiles at me. “It’s heavy!” He walks down the short hallway to my place and stops at the threshold and thrusts the pretty-papered, ribbon-tied box at me. I take it, groan from the weight, then set it down by the door. I shuffle though my purse to find the few dollars in change I didn’t need to spend this morning on coffee and hand it over. He smiles, does a short bow, and turns on his heel.

I close the door and slump down to the floor next to the box. “Now what in the hell is this?”

My phone buzzes across the room on the coffee table, so I get up and grab it.

I’m calling you in thirty seconds, pick up.

Bossy Man is back. I ignored his earlier messages. I mean, not really, I listened to them and I fumed about them. But I didn’t call him back like he demanded. But when the phone rings thirty seconds later I press accept. “Yes,” I say curtly.

“Open the box.”

“Oh,” I say with a hint of disappointment. “That’s from you?”

He grunts. “Who the hell did you think it was from?”

“I’m kidding, you jealous jerk.”

“Just open the box.”

I walk back over to the package and untie the ribbon. “I like the gift wrap,” I say, as I pull on the long satin strands.

“Is it pink?” Vaughn asks, sounding earnest.

“Yeah, a very bright pink. It’s pretty.” He sighs, like that makes him happy, and my stomach flutters. For all his caveman tendencies, he’s actually charming at times. I take the lid off the box and peel back the white tissue paper, not expecting anything specific, because the weight of the box was a dead giveaway this was not lingerie or candy. “What is it?” I ask, staring at the bundle of papers. “We’re not really married, @mrinvsman, so I know they’re not divorce papers.”