And why on earth is there a part of me that doesn’t want it to be a throw-away invite?
Dating is the last thing I want or need right now. That’s why my arrangement with Grant has been so perfect. He gives me what I need at the club and then we both go off to live our lives. The man has done more to help me figure out all the broken pieces of myself than I ever could have imagined, without even leaving that building.
It’s more than enough, what the two of us have. And it’s not like I have more to offer someone anyhow. I barely have enough for myself these days.
“Here we are,” Gemma says, setting two mugs on the table before sliding into the seat across from me. “A respectable Earl Grey for myself and for you, whatever rubbish sugar concoction you Americans try to convince yourself is coffee.”
I roll my eyes as I pick up my mocha. “It’s not rubbish, you snob.”
“That thing is practically a milkshake, Kensie!”
I swipe a dollop of whipped cream off the top with my tongue. “You’re missing out. Chocolate and sugar are life.”
I don’t tell her that my affinity for sugary coffee drinks are somewhat of an act of resistance for me. Fred hadn’t allowed them, not even on occasion. In fact, he would regularly track mysugar intake when he felt I was filling out too much. I had lived way too many years deprived of sugar and carbs to ever opt for boring tea over the warm deliciousness currently in front of me.
Gemma looks like she wants to argue some more, but her phone beeps with a text. She looks at the screen and sighs. “It’s a no on the Barton, too.”
I groan. “Seriously? What’s their problem with the Barton?”
“Apparently, it’s ‘too colloquial.’” She does air quotes. “Whatever the bloody hell that means.”
I drown my frustration in another sip of creamy chocolate goodness. This is the same client I’d been complaining about to Grant last night. No matter how much research I do for Gemma, no matter how impressive the pieces we find, they just aren’t satisfied.
“I’ve half a mind to drop them,” she mutters, tapping away a response. “Everything is either too common or too unique for them. How does that make any sense?”
More money than taste, Grant had said last night. My core immediately heats at the memory of him leaning towards me over a glass of wine, asking about my job, scolding me for being self-deprecating. He looked so good sitting there, his big body sprawled in the leather booth with that confident ease that had attracted me from the very beginning. Grant Anderson was all man and he knew exactly what he wanted?—
Stop,I order myself. Again.
“Anyhow,” Gemma continues, still tapping on her phone. “Now that I have my phone out…” She pushes it toward me so I can see the screen. So I can see themanon the screen.
“What am I looking at here?”
“Your future lov-ah,” she says slyly, and it’s a good thing I already swallowed my last sip of mocha. I practically choke on air as it is.
“No,” I say immediately, pushing the phone away. “Not interested.”
“Kense,” she whines, trying to dodge my hands to get the screen back in front of my face. “Just look at him! He’s attractive, kind, completely loaded?—”
“I’m not ready to date.” Even saying the word makes my insides clench. “I might noteverbe ready to date.”
Her face falls. “Don’t say that! You’re such a catch!” She sets her phone down and reaches across the table to take my hands. “You can’t let what that asshole did control the rest of your life.”
I close my eyes. I want to tell her that she wouldn’t understand, but we both know that’s not the truth.
Gemma and I share a very shitty title—ex-wives to abusive, bastard men. But as bad as my husband was, Gemma’s ex made him seem like a saint. While Fred had been controlling, manipulative, cruel, unfaithful, and verbally abusive, Gemma’s husband had made a habit of beating the hell out of her.
She was a client of Gina Afton as well, which is how we met in the first place. Our divorce attorney is the best in the state for many reasons. Fierce, wickedly smart and willing to fight ceaselessly for her clients.
Underneath that pit bull image, she’s also a fairy freaking godmother. She does a lot of pro-bono work for women in abusive situations, and she helps support many of them in the aftermath of divorce—like how she’d recommended me for this job.
If Gemma had changed my life, Gina had saved it. There’s no way I could have afforded a decent lawyer—it’s not like Fred allowed me to have any money of my own. I can’t even imagine where I would be if I’d been forced to stay in that marriage.
Gina had also introduced me to Jane, the P.I. she’d hired to get dirt on my ex. Both women had taken me out to celebrate the finalization of the divorce. Over far too much tequila we’d gottenonto the subject of sex—namely the fact that I would never have to sleep with Fred again. I may have let a few things slip about how unsatisfying that relationship had been, even before he’d started resorting to manipulation and pressure to get what he wanted.
I’m not sure exactly what I said, to be honest. I blame the tequila. But I’d said enough for Jane to approach me a few days later and offer to bring me to Club Wyld and introduce me to Grant.
“You need this,” she’d told me seriously. “Believe me. It will help.”
