I can't remember the last time I was disappointed to see a woman leave.

They come and then they go, and usually—fuck that, always—I’m ready for that to happen. It's how I operate. I never promise anything more than a good time and a good orgasm and while some are in my life longer than others, they always know better than to expect more. But this one, with her dark curls that begged for my fingers to wind through them and lush curves that demanded my attention every time she moved, this one is already an enigma.

I’d seen her in passing over a month ago, at Exley’s shop when he was still working on the table that might tank my career. She was wearing scrubs then, too: pink hearts that were just as childish and ridiculous as what she strutted into my office wearing this afternoon. She was different that day, though. She had looked twice. She’d roamed her brown eyes over me, the corners crinkling and her lips squeezing together. Her expression was different from her friend’s—not the wary, judgmental face Lucy made whenever we spoke but a look that had made my pants tighten.

Jamie’s face had been a sexy mixture of appreciation and undisguised curiosity.

When I saw her today—after I got over the surprise and irritation that Lucy Williams needed her friend to hold her hand while she stuttered and blushed through an apology for fucking me over—I expected the same appreciation. The curiosity. Instead, Jamie Armstrong surprised me not once or twice but three times. She greeted me with a forced smile, then focused her undivided attention on her foolish friend; she called me on my shit after I attempted to rattle her with a language I never imagined she’d comprehend; and then, she shrugged me off, uttering her parting words.

If you say so.

If. You. Fucking. Say. So.

That she didn’t have the balls or the courtesy to look me in the eye while she was saying it ground my nerves.

They’re still grinding, and she’s been gone five minutes. They’re still grinding—hell, they’re nothing but dust at this point—because she’s not what I expected. And the beautiful ones usually are.

I drum my fingers on the surface of my desk, on either side of the contract I recently negotiated for a client who just scored her own reality TV series. “She’ll call,” I say aloud to the empty office, glowering at the brown leather chair she’d occupied. “She’ll call because she won’t be able to resist.”

“B?” Frustrated at the interruption, I greet Sonora’s blue gaze with an angry scowl. She’s standing in the doorway of my office, one hand on a voluptuous hip and the other resting against the doorframe. “Priscilla's here to see you.”

“Already?” She nods, and I scrub my hand over my face. “How long has she been waiting?”

“Since before Lucy and her friend left.” When I release a curse because I’ve lost track of time thinking about her, my receptionist’s smile falters. “B … are you all right?”

A photo from a sex party I hosted at my home has been shared in every corner of the universe, I’ve had two clients give me the finger this week, and I’ve just discovered that I don’t read people nearly as well as I thought. What the fuck does she think? “The best I’ve ever been,” I growl, and Sonora furrows her brow at my sarcasm.

“Should I have Hayden talk to her instead? If you’re not feeling well, I—”

I lift a hand, shaking my head. “No.” I know Priscilla. She’ll go off the grid for a month or two if I attempt to pawn her off on one of our associates. “Send her back.”

When she clomps in a moment later in monstrosities that resemble platformed hooves, Priscilla overwhelms the space with whatever floral perfume she’d doused herself in to mask the stench of cigarette smoke. “There’s my favorite client,” I drawl. She shoots me a venomous glare and plops down in front of my desk—in the same chair she sat in before she all but told me to go fuck myself.

“You don’t look happy to see me at all,” Priscilla complains.

There’s no denying I’d rather see deep brown instead of icy blue irises staring back at me. That I’d prefer a tangle of curls over the blue-black waves spilling over Priscilla’s shoulders. That I’d rather look at her scrubs any day instead of a tight band tee and tattooed arms.

“I’m always happy to see you.”

She grabs a paperweight—the prism Sonora gave me for Christmas—from the edge of my desk and weighs it in her palm. “You’re such a fucking liar, Mateo, but you’re a productive liar, so all’s forgiven.” Of all my clients, she’s the biggest wildcard. Priscilla’s a musician, a rocker, and she's been a thorn in my side since I began representing her years ago.

She crosses her legs and raps three fingertips against a strategic rip on one thigh. “The funniest thing just happened,” she says suddenly.

“And what would that be?”

She smirks. Shit, I hate when Priscilla smirks because that means she’s pulled some crazy stunt that will be a real shit storm to clean up. “I could have sworn I just walked by that pretty face that was in that photo of you. You know, the fuck-fest pic that’s circling its way around the internet.” To demonstrate, she ceases the drumming on her thigh and twirls her fingertip. “Nice dick, by the way.”

She looks absolutely gleeful. The hateful bitch.

“Let’s try to be professional, shall we?” She responds by sucking in her bottom lip and lowering her lashes. Men fall over themselves when she does that—the innocent thing—but Priscilla’s never fooled me. “But, yes, that was her. She came to talk to me about the situation. Before you ask, I'm not sure how I'll proceed.”

“I’m not sure how I’ll proceed,” she mocks me in a deep, exaggerated voice. I’m tempted to ask her if she’s drunk or high or both. It wouldn’t be the first time she showed up to a meeting blitzed out of her mind. Instead, I tap the face of my watch to remind her she’s footing the bill.

“You’re worse than Luke with that serious shit.” Pouting, she returns the prism to my desk. “Do you have my contract?”

“Everything we spoke about is here.” I slide the paperwork until the edges bump her outstretched fingers. “They really want you.” I wish I were surprised, but nowadays, that’s the nature of entertainment. The world wants erratic—unfiltered—and Priscilla has that. In spades.

“Why wouldn’t they?” She thumbs through the contract, pretending to read over it. “You think I'm making a mistake, don't you?”

“I'm your attorney. My job is to negotiate you the best deal possible not to give you creative advice.”

But signing on to a reality show that will put her antics—the drunken outbursts and who the fuck knows what else—on display to the entire world is a shit idea. Not that I’m one to talk. My hard-on is everywhere, all thanks to a sloppy drunk who can’t honor the non-disclosure agreements she signs.

“You’re making enough from this deal to buy yourself a pretty new BMW.” Priscilla scrunches her nose. “You can at least tell me what you think.”

“Ask your bandmates for their opinion. They’re the ones who’ll have to deal with the cameras and all the extra press,” I suggest, and she responds with a huff and a roll of her pale blue eyes.

“Speaking of my bandmates…” She flips the top page of the contract and runs her fingertip along the first line of the next sheet. “You know, having you represent me is tarnishing my image. My drummer has asked me at least a hundred times if I’ve gone to your dirty sex parties.”

“Priscilla,” I start, my voice laced in irritation. A shit-eating grin inches across her features. “Are you sure it’s my photo tarnishing your reputation and not the screenshots from that video of that backstage video of you?”

She sucks a breath in through her teeth. “For fuck’s sake, Bailon. I make a joke, and you have to go and dick it up.” She shoves herself away from my desk, stretches her arms over her head, and yawns. “See what I did there with that dick it up bit? Told you I could be punny.”

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. By the time she slithers out of my office, I’m going to need a drink. “Priscilla—”

“Besides, that video of me is eight years old. Your picture is recent.”

Yeah, thanks for the reminder. I lower my hand from my face and clench my fingers on top of my desk. “Eight years, huh?” I vividly recall her coming to me just two years ago, begging me to squash the video—the very recent video—that some fan uploaded to every amateur porn site in existence. “Is that what you’re telling your fian—”

“He’s the biggest sinner I know,” she interrupts, a stiff smile frozen on her lips. “And like I said, I was just kidding. You know I’d never leave you, especially now that I know you’re such a dirty, no good, very bad boy.”

She winks at me as she scoots her chair back, and I hold my breath, so I won’t suffocate from the clash of nicotine and perfume. Folding the contract as many times as the stack of papers will allow, she stuffs it into the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ll read over this and call Red to schedule a time to come in next week before I head back to L.A.”

“Sonora hates being called Red.” But she shrugs because that’s Priscilla. She doesn’t give a fuck.

“Habit,” she explains and fluffs her hair. “Not a big fan of tall, gorgeous redheads.”

I don’t remind her that the former flame she swears left her for a redhead wasn’t a flame at all since I prefer not to deal with the meltdown that will surely follow.

As Priscilla leaves my office, she does something that the other woman, Jamie, hadn’t bothered to do. She turns to look at me. “You should cut the chick from the picture some slack. She looked like she was about to start bawling when she came out. And her friend was so pissed off she threw your card away. I thought that was a nice touch, you know.”

The muscles in my neck tighten as I process what Priscilla’s just said. She threw my card away? I had assumed she would give what I said some thought—that later, she would pull my card from the pocket of that silly scrub top and would have no other choice but to call me, because she’d want to prove me wrong.

It seems that, once again, I’m mistaken where Jamie Armstrong is concerned.

“You look stunned.” Priscilla bounces on the toes of her hoof boots, and I hope she tips the fuck over. “Not used to beautiful women throwing your card away like it’s got a bad case of the clap?”

“Not used to my clients giving me advice.” I narrow my gaze and dart it over her shoulder, indicating that I’ve had about all the Priscilla Craig I can handle for one week. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You know you can count on me,” she says, though we both know I can’t. “Oh, and I gave my friend your information. Her dick-sandwich of a record company just canceled her contract, and she needs help.” At last she leaves, humming one of her songs all the way down the hall, and reminding me why I’m always happy to see women leave.

Usually.

Except for Jamie Armstrong.

After I hear the elevator ding, I waste no time. I reach for my desk phone and call Sonora. She answers immediately, chirping like a happy little bird. “Yes, boss?”

“The card in your trash, is it still there?”

“What card are you—” She pauses, makes a low noise of confusion in the back of her throat, then returns to the line. “Yes, it's in here. Why do you ask?”

“Hold on to it for me.”

She goes silent for long enough to make my nostrils flare, and when she speaks, she sounds offended. “You want me to dig in the trash?”

“What the fuck do you think hold on to it means?”

“You have dozens of those things. Why do you need this one?”

I’m lenient with Sonora—I have been since she began working at this firm last year—but this isn’t something I’m willing to budge on. “And you have dozens of Fridays left this year, why do you need tomorrow off?”

She curses under her breath, but then I hear the aggravating sound of paper rattling. Before she can respond, I say, “Perfect. I'll pick it up from your desk on the way out tonight.”

* * *

Jamie’s dismissal of me is still front and center in my mind when I meet Victoria for dinner the next night. I've known Victoria for a long time, since before I moved to Boston when I was based in the California office. Even with all the money in the world, she’s the one person in this fucked up world I identify with. We don’t indulge in one another—we never have—and for that reason, she’s been in my life longer than any other woman other than my sister and grandmother. The fact that Victoria’s in that photo also, that her life has been uprooted by Lucy William’s fuck-up, has kept me awake at night. What I’m asking her to do now will only make the sleeplessness worse.

“What do you mean you don't want me to sue?” Victoria swirls her finger around her full glass of wine and stares me directly in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I could have sworn you were asking me to pretend this situation never happened. How about we shift gears to something that isn’t ridiculous? How’s your grandmother doing?”

“She’s the same,” I say roughly, and Victoria gives me a sympathetic purse of her lips before I continue. “It's not Exley's fault.” But I feel like a chump for repeating what Lucy sniveled in my office yesterday.

Her jaw clenches. “He can't control his employees,” she grinds out, her volume increasing with every word. When someone at the table next to ours clears his throat, and she realizes she’s attracting attention, she dips her blonde head to her plate and grips the edge of the table. “I would say that's definitely his fault,” she says in a hushed breath.

“Lucy came to see me yesterday.”

“And?” She blinks incredulously. “Do you want me to give Miss Too-Stupid-To-Live a standing ovation for having the balls to come out of hiding?” Releasing the table, she knocks her fingertips together in a sarcastic golf clap. The look in my eyes freezes the motion of her hands mid-clap, and she lifts her glass, holding it like a weapon.

Right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if she broke it and used the stem to skewer my balls.

“And I would say it's an honest mistake. She meant to send it to her friend, but she posted it publicly. Her ex-husband's a motherfucker and when he saw it, he ran away with it. You of all people know about ex-husbands.” Victoria’s most recent ex is a waste of space—a gold digger who’d taken advantage of a woman with too much baggage and an even bigger heart. Mentioning him brings a harsh smile to her pale face, just like always.

“Yes,” she hisses. “I've heard from mine nonstop since that photo went viral and you know what he's demanding? More money.”

“You don’t owe him a thing. I mean it, don’t pay him a cent.”

“You're being awfully calm about this, B.” She turns her glass to her lips and polishes off the contents in one gulp. From her grimace and the way she sweeps the room in search of our waiter, I can tell she regrets not ordering the entire bottle. “Are you fucking that woman—that Lucy?”

Sneering, I shake my head. Lucy Williams is sexy—I’ll give her that—but nothing about the woman does it for me. “Does it always have to be about getting into someone’s panties?”

“Where you and I are concerned, it does. Especially since you want to do this for her.”

“Did you ever stop to think I might just recognize an honest mistake?”

She laughs. “Not good enough, Bailon. I’m not even fucking with you. You’re going to have to do better than that.” Noting my pensive expression, she leans closer until her diamond hoop earrings are a few centimeters from the candle’s flame. “Remember, I know everything about you. You don't believe in honest mistakes, not where women are concerned.”

Sometimes, I hate Victoria. Hate her frankness. Her ability to see right through me. I grab my whiskey from the table and take a swig. “I’m not that way with you,” I mutter then groan. “I want her friend.”

“To do…?” Eyebrow lifting, she takes a bite of her salmon, makes a face, then glances at her empty wine glass. “I thought you said you’re done with the parties for a while.”

I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m done being myself. I’ve had plenty of time to think about her. Plenty of time to piss myself off again and again over the way she’d shrugged off my invitation. Plenty of time to remember the teasing sway of her hips as she left my office, brushing me off. Just before she threw away my card.

“I want her to do what I do best.”

“Ah, so it does boil down to fucking. Hey, hold on a second.” Her gaze slips over my shoulders, and she jiggles her empty wine glass before lifting a thumb in approval. Returning her focus to mine, she places her glass on the table and relaxes her shoulders. “You know, you can be completely transparent with me—I don’t judge. How long have you been seeing Lucy’s friend?”

That’s the problem. Lucy’s friend should have been curious enough to call me last night. She should have been so intrigued that I woke up this morning with the scent of sex and sweat on my sheets and her scrubs on my floor. Instead, I woke up alone with my cock in my hand instead of in her.

“She must be beautiful,” Victoria says when I choose not to answer her previous question. “For you not to pursue suing the shit out of someone, she has to be truly beautiful.”

I picture Jamie—golden brown skin and soft pink lips. Long lashes that dipped over dark eyes when I stared at her too long. She is beautiful. And she’s pissed me the fuck off. I give Victoria a one-shouldered shrug. “I barely know her.”

“But you want me to pretend I’m not angry about a photo of my tits in your playroom because you don't want to upset her.” Victoria leans back in her seat and steeples her manicured fingers together. She presses them to her lips and sizes me up for a moment. “She must have magic in her panties.”

I plan to find out. “Maybe.”

“Tell you what? I'll think about it. Because you’re you and you’re one of my favorite people, I’ll think long and hard, and I’ll talk to my own lawyers.”

“Thank you.”

“Always. You know that.” She bumps the toe of her pump in a jerky rhythm against the base of the table and crinkles her brow. “You don’t think it will cause problems with the dumbass, do you? Going after her friend?”

I remember the card folded up and tucked inside my wallet—the one she had tossed aside after she told me that bullshit. If you say so. I think of her predilection for social media. How easy it would be to find her.

“No,” I answer. “I just need enough time to show her I mean what I say.”