“So we . . . ” Nate says, trailing off as we stand in the stark daylight outside the world’s most depressing looking strip club. The Palace Veil. Probably looks a lot better at night, with a ton of neon and the sound of loud music inside.

My temples are throbbing again, but it’s not because of the hangover. It’s the memories that’ve come flooding back since we stepped out of the car. I don’t have everything yet. The memories are coming in mostly flashes, but they’re there. Me dancing onstage, doing acrobatics I hadn’t attempted since I was in pep squad. That explains why my legs were so sore this morning. Thank God yoga keeps me limber.

Then, of course, there’s the janitor’s closet after that. And all the things that happened in that closet. I could make a joke about getting dirty around cleaning materials, but I just don’t have it in me right now.

Heh. In me.

Oh my God, what am I talking about?

“We went in the closet, and . . . ” Nate pauses again. He seems as embarrassed about the whole thing as I am, which is at least one nice thing.

“You partook of my virtue, m’lord,” I say, not meeting his eyes. When I get nervous, I go straight to Renaissance Faire speak. It’s just easier to handle reality when I imagine I’m in a corset with a turkey drumstick, I guess.

Heh. Drumstick.

I’m going to hell.

Nate makes some kind of noncommittal noise. I peek over at him. He’s the same as he was this morning, I remind myself, even though we now remember fucking. Same chiseled profile, same gorgeous but douchey hair, same dark blue gaze full of judgment. Same bad personality. Same insults. Insulting people isn’t hot. I don’t care what Lizzie/Darcy shippers believe; it’s just common sense. But now my body is tingling in the slightest ways, my panties dampening the tiniest bit. Because I remember how that was, and it was hot.

Nate looks over at me as well, and maybe I’m crazy, but I think he’s remembering it, too. Like, envisioning it.

“So. We know we came here. Where did we go next?” he says to me, studiously avoiding my gaze. Fine. I cross my arms.

“Before we go any further, I need one thing. Can you go inside and see if my, uh, purse is in there? I still can’t find it.” Or my laptop, but let’s tackle one problem at a time. “It’s got my ID, so I’m freaking out a little.” I’m also blushing to the roots of my hair, remembering the taste of his mouth, the way he thrust into me so deep I could have passed out from pleasure. Purse, Julia. Remember the purse. “Also I, uh, have a lunch meeting I need to get to. Like right now. Lunching. Pronto.”

“I’ll try to find your purse. Then I will be right back,” he says stiffly, like a robot man.

Great. Of course he feels awkward. He’s embarrassed about what happened last night, probably. I mean, so am I, of course. But at least I’m not making him feel gross and weird about himself.

Well, fuck him. I mean, I’ve already done that, but still. Again. Let’s do that. No, no let’s not do that, Julia. What is happening to you?

My David Tennant Tenth Doctor subconscious is still spinning around, flipping brain dials and acting like a freak. Don’t let him continue like that.

“Are you all right?” Nate asks, looking concerned. “Your eyes started darting back and forth.”

“It’s what happens when my id goes crazy,” I say with a shrug. “I like to imagine my id’s the Tenth Doctor. You know?”

“Excuse me?” Now he looks really scared. Great job.

“Doctor Who? David Tennant? BBC television show?” Okay, this really isn’t helping my I’m not crazy thing. “It’s on Netflix. Check it out sometime. Okay. Lunch away.” I give a little swing of my arms as I say it and hop right back into the car to tell him to take me to the Bellagio ASAP, TYSM, WTF.

Thank God for my Uber account, or I’d have no money for the service.

“How am I getting back?” Nate says, standing there in the hot sun, the dust swirling around his feet, his shirt picking out the definition of his chest and abs, which I now remember running my hands along and boy howdy was that good . . . .

If David Tennant is my wild side, then the Ninth Doctor, played by Christopher Eccleston, is the calm and rational part of me. And right now, he has shown up out of the depths of time and space to tell me to stop drooling and get to my appointment.

“I’ll send it back. Or call someone to come get you. Bye!” I wave and roll the window up as we drive away, listening to the competing British Time Lords duking it out in my head, fighting for supremacy. I actually imagine them, running around the consoles of my mind, pulling levers and arguing with each other.

“You should have told him to find you later at the hotel,” David Tennant says, jumping up and down and dodging around, looking adorable in his high tops and brown striped suit. “Then you could force him into your car and drive around having hot sex! That’s what I do with all my companions. Well, except for Martha. And Donna.”

“No!” sensible Christopher Eccleston says, stepping in. “You have to keep your distance. Suppose the Daleks invade, and you’re emotionally compromised? And just think! Who knows if he’s had his shots? What were you doing, having sex with a glowing condom?”

Shut up, Doctor. You’re not a doctor, for God’s sake.

“You okay?” the cabbie asks, looking into the rearview mirror. A pair of fuzzy red dice hang from it, and a little Elvis bobblehead boogies on the dashboard. “Sounds like you’re muttering to yourself in a bad British accent.”

“Just a headache,” I say, and stare out the window wondering how hard I’m losing my sanity.

“There she is, my New York Times bestseller,” Meredith crows, standing up and giving me a hug. “How are you, kid? Still hungover? Walking bowlegged?” She winks at me as I slide into the booth at the hotel restaurant.

God, I start blushing again, and just when I’d managed to stop. Just thinking about Nate’s mouth on mine, his hands playing over my breasts while he had me pinned up against the wall . . . . Who knew cold fish lawyers were so passionate? This spurs another inner debate.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “David Tennant and Chris Eccleston are arguing again.”

“When aren’t they?” Meredith says with a shrug. That’s what I love about her. There is nothing too crazy for her to go along with. “Now Angela should be here in ten minutes or so—fucking editors, they’re always running late at these things. We’re pitching the Starwood Resort series. I’m thinking based on the success of Forbidden Desire, we’ll have her salivating. She goes back to Ballantine, they throw some numbers around, and bam. I’m thinking we’ll end up with a major deal.”

“A major deal?” Damn, I’m almost floored at the thought of it. I’m pulling in good money with my royalties, but a high six-figure advance for the first time in my career? Shit. That’ll buy a lot of crocheting needles.

“Speaking of high figures, how much did you have to part with in the divorce?” Meredith asks, raising an eyebrow.

Great. Good. I didn’t need to be happy; my whole luxuriating in the memory of good sex, it all goes up in smoke.

I fidget with my napkin, and Meredith clears her throat. “Sorry, kid. I just want to know how much of your hard-earned money Drew was able to snatch, that’s all.”

“You know, that doesn’t make the situation sound any lighter,” I deadpan.

“Maybe not, but I’d like to kick the schmuck in the balls.” She takes a long pull of chardonnay while I suck down some ice water. Dehydrated. So dehydrated.

“Not too bad. Two hundred thousand in the end. Lump sum, though, so no monthly alimony payments.”

Of all the shitty memories of my divorce, the shittiest probably has to be sitting across from Drew in a high-rise building in Milwaukee, staring at him in a too-snug suit with a too-snug collar, as he pouts while his lawyer explains how I have to keep him in the manner to which he’s become accustomed. We had no kids, no huge medical bills. He was young, healthy, able-bodied, had a job. But he couldn’t resist walking away with a little something extra. Not to get too morbid, but that image makes all of our fun, happy times—the night he proposed, our honeymoon at the Dells, moving into our first apartment—get tainted by association.

“Word of advice. Pre-nup next time,” Meredith says, flipping open her menu and taking a look. “Okay. You warned me once about getting oysters in the desert, but I gotta tell you. I’m thinking I want some seafood.”

I haven’t quite moved on from that one special word.

“Pre-nup?” I say, laughing. “Won’t need it. I think I’ll become a wily, Casanova-like heroine. Hitting the Riviera, banging lots of hot men with indeterminate accents. A woman of mystery,” I scan the menu and try not to remember my orgasm last night. I had to have been drunk. Okay, I mean, I know I was drunk, but I had to have been really out of my mind. No sex can be that good, especially not with a stranger in a janitor’s closet that smells like ammonia. Especially not when that stranger happens to be a lawyer who also happens to be, shock of all shocks, a cold-blooded asshole. Even David Tennant agrees with me on this.

I wonder if that cold-blooded asshole ever found my purse. I wonder if I should hunt him down and find out. Give us another chance to talk.

I wonder why I like that idea so much.