Leo steps out of the bathroom surrounded by a cloud of steam. I’ve never met anyone who showers for as long as he does. He’s dressed in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a casual suede jacket in burnished cognac with polished oxfords to match. The man looks edible. Oh god, what is wrong with me? I already sent a text to Claire to say I won’t be joining them for dinner because I’m not feeling well, but maybe I really am sick. Maybe I need my head examined. I clear my throat and swallow hard.

He runs a hand through his damp hair and his gaze slides over me from head to toe. I’m wearing my Grumpy Cat PJs. After a minute of staring, he doubles over with laughter. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Pajamas.” I close my laptop and glare at him. “What?”

“You sleep in Grumpy Cat pajamas?”

“So?”

“Oh, baby. You really are a crazy cat lady.”

“Don’t call me baby; I’m not your baby. And so I like cats. So what?”

“So what?”

“What’s so wrong with that?”

“Okay, remember twenty minutes ago when your ex-fiancé and your best friend were having wild monkey sex in the room next door? You know why she’s wearing his ring right now and you’re not?” Leo raises a brow at me, as if he’s waiting for a response, but he doesn’t miss a beat before he opens his mouth again. “Because you’re a fucking crazy cat lady. Cat ladies don’t get married; cat ladies don’t get laid. Cat ladies die alone in their apartments surrounded by their crazy fucking cats, who eventually eat their owners.”

I straighten my pony tail, pulling it so tight I give myself a mini eye-lift. “My cats would never eat me.”

“You say that now, but ten days after your rotting corpse has been fermenting on the living room rug, and those cats have eaten all the kibble left in their bowls, they will eat what’s left of you.”

“Could you just leave already?”

“Hey, I’m trying to help. God knows you need it.”

“I don’t need help. I don’t need advice from a man whore. And I definitely don’t need a man. I have a vibrator. Several, actually, and some other things that I don’t even know the names of . . . or did you forget about the giant basket you had delivered to my workplace?”

“How could I forget when I get updates every day?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The we vibe.”

I cast a surreptitious glance toward my luggage, which happens to house the vibe in question. It’s not like I thought Claire and I would be having that kind of slumber party, but we have tickets to Magic Mike, and since her husband-to-be is on this trip, and I have no one to take the edge off but the goon standing right in front of me—and that is so not happening—I thought I may as well bring it along.

Leo’s mouth twists with a lopsided grin. “You brought it with you, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You dirty girl. You brought my vibe to Vegas.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Not unless you picture my face when you use it.”

“Not on your life,” I say. “And what did you mean about getting updates?”

He stares at me in disbelief, as if I’m simple. Then he walks to the bedside table and picks up his phone. After punching in his security code, he turns the screen to face me. There’s an app open, and it’s showing me Pop Tart’s Playlist. I snatch the phone from him and hit play. My vibrator starts buzzing in my bag, and realization finally dawns. I scroll through a list of songs: “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails, “Gorilla” by Bruno Mars, “Wicked Games” by The Weekend. The list goes on and on.

“Oh my god.” My mouth gapes open in horror. All this time he’s been . . . “You!”

Leo smiles. “Me.”

“You’ve been spying on me through my vibrator?”

“Spying? Jesus, Pop Tart, you make it sound so covert. What exactly do you do while you’re masturbating? Sounds like I’m missing out on all the fun.”

“I can’t believe you. This is an invasion of my privacy.”

“Oh, come on. You used the vibrators I sent you—what did you expect? You’d never seen a We-Vibe before?”

“No. And I certainly wouldn’t have used it if I’d known.”

“Why?”

“Because, you freak, you’re you, and I’m—”

“A crazy cat lady in desperate need of a good, hard fuck.” It isn’t a question. He takes several steps toward me. I shoot farther back on the bed, but Leo seems unperturbed. He wedges himself between my legs and my mouth opens in shock as he leans down into my space, forcing me to lie flat to avoid our bodies colliding. He hovers above me with that fucking Nass smirk on his face and lowers his hips until we’re touching. “Tell me, Pop Tart, is your pussy this unhappy, too?” He fingers the print of Grumpy Cat right over my nipple. I gasp before I can help it. The sound just slips out. Leo’s eyes darken with lust.

“Right now? Yeah, because some asshole doesn’t know what personal space means.”

He smirks and lifts himself up off the bed and away from me. I can’t help but shove him to make him move quicker.

“I hate you.”

“Aww, you say the sweetest things. You okay, there? You look a little worked up.”

“Well, it’s not every day my archnemesis climbs between my legs and tries to get me to sleep with him—as if that would ever be an option.”

“You won’t fuck me, just my vibrator, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

“God, fighting with you is exhausting.”

“You think this is fighting? No, sweetheart, this is foreplay. Now imagine how good it would feel with your grumpy pussy wrapped around my cock.”

“You’re sick.”

“I prefer the term sexual deviant, but hey, whatever floats your boat. Oh, wait—I know what floats your boat.” He taps his screen and the buzzing starts up again.

I grab my pillow and throw it at him.

Leo is as cool as ever when he walks to the door. Swiping his room key from the counter, he winks at me. “Don’t wait up.”