Chapter 19

Yes. I was a food-slut.

But in my own defense, Tiffany had refused to take no for an answer. And honestly, I was running shamefully low on dignity.

"So anyway," Tiffany was saying, "I'm thinking that if he likes blondes, I'm a total shoe-in."

I wasn't so sure. From what I'd seen on the news, not to mention an embarrassing amount of gossip blog posts, Tiffany would have some serious competition. I asked, "But what about that model?"

Tiffany frowned. "Which one?"

I tried to think. There was that leggy brunette, and maybe a couple of blondes. I couldn’t recall any of their names, but that was no surprise. I wasn't big into high fashion, especially with everything so far beyond my budget.

I said, "Actually, I'm not sure. Maybe someone who goes by just one name?" Yes, I was playing the odds. I mean, they all went by one name these days, right?

"If you're talking about Maven," Tiffany said, "I'm not even worried. She's a total diva. And besides, you know she's just using him."

I had no idea which model was called Maven. But did it matter?

Probably not. After all, it's not like I'd ever meet her.

Still, I said, "Using him? You mean for his money?"

Tiffany laughed. "No. Not that."

"Oh," I said. "For his looks?"

Tiffany leaned forward. "Guess again."

"Um…" I tried to think. "His last name?"

After all Bennington was pretty high up there in the name-recognition department. That sort of thing would matter to a diva, right?

Tiffany gave another laugh. "No. That's not it."

"Well, it couldn’t be his charm," I muttered.

Tiffany lowered her voice. "It is, if you're talking about the charm in his pants." She gave something like a giggle. "I felt it, you know."

I froze. "It?"

Tiffany nodded. "Oh yeah. It was just through our clothes, but…" Her eyes became dreamy. "Oh. My. God."

Instinctively, I drew back. I so didn't want the details.

We'd already eaten, and my stomach couldn't handle another thing – especially dirty details on Zane Bennington's anatomy.

I glanced down at the table, now littered with soiled napkins and dirty plates. I'd just devoured a full plate of pasta primavera plus that whole basket of bread sticks – well, minus the one that Tiffany had nibbled on. Plus, there'd been that cannoli for desert and a nice little mint to finish everything off.

Damn it. I wanted to keep it all down, not send it right back up again.

I didn't know why, but I was surprisingly disturbed at the image of Tiffany making a grab for the prick's, well, prick, actually. Just the thought made my stomach lurch in a way that was decidedly unnatural.

It was really strange, too, because I'd just spent a full hour listening to Tiffany go on and on about how she was considering ditching the senator for Zane. None of that had made me feel sick.

Then again, that part of the conversation had been pretty clinical. The way it sounded, Tiffany had this whole mental spreadsheet mapped out, stating the pros and cons of each guy.

When it came to wealth, fame, influence, and looks, Zane was the clear winner. But the senator did have one huge thing going for him – he'd already popped the question. He was the proverbial bird-in-the-hand, while Zane was still firmly in the bush.

Across from me, Tiffany picked up her nearly empty wine glass and drained the rest of her zinfandel. She returned the glass to the table and said, "Did I mention I'm seeing him tonight?"

My stomach gave another lurch.

Damn it.

Still, I tried to shrug it off. "Oh, really? You mean like on a date?"

"I wouldn’t call it a date-date." She grinned. "But I am meeting him at the hotel later on."

"Oh." In my stomach, that sick feeling grew and twisted. Why? I had no idea. Breadstick overload? That had to be it. Hoping to steer the conversation away from Zane's privates, I made myself ask, "Which hotel?"

She gave me a look. "His. Of course."

"Oh." Yeah, that was probably a stupid question. After all, the guy owned the most luxurious hotel and conference center in the whole city. Why on Earth would he slum it anywhere else?

Across from me, Tiffany pulled out her cell phone and frowned. "Oh, shoot. I've got a manicure at two." She reached into her purse and pulled out a few bills. She tossed them onto the table and said, "Sorry to run, but can you settle up here?"

Before I could even think to answer, she was already on her feet, blowing me an air kiss and scampering off to wherever. I looked down at the bills and did a quick calculation. If nothing else, she'd made good on her deal.

The cash was enough to cover both of our lunches, plus a nice tip for the waitress. Still, looking at the bills, scattered among the dirty dishes, I couldn’t help but feel at least a little weird about it. After all, I'd just let someone I didn't particularly like treat me to lunch, just because I was hungry.

There was only one cure for that, I decided – to find a job of my own, like now. With that in mind, I spent the next couple of hours, going from business to business in hopes that somebody was hiring.

Finally, thanks to a chance meeting with a former neighbor, I had my first solid lead. There was only one problem.

I hated the thought of pursuing it – and all because of you-know-who.