Free Get Lucky by Lila Monroe Page B

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.

11

Nate
    T he hotel pool sparkles in the hot noon sunlight. Scantily clad women frolic, splashing each other, laughing. The desert air is warm but not roasting, especially underneath the shade of this umbrella. You’d think this’d be paradise, my own personal Xanadu of beautiful bodies and poolside cocktails. Unfortunately, the whole brush with the law problem earlier this morning has kind of taken the fun out of this for me.
    Besides, there’s Julia. I’m remembering even more now. And that’s more than a little distracting.
    The sun is damn bright, but at least I’m wearing my sunglasses, so my headache isn’t reaching epic proportions. While I sit with Mike in the shade, drinking a beer to try to get over my hangover before the ceremony, I focus. By focus, I mean I watch Tyler make a spectacular ass of himself. That’s been happening a lot on this trip.
    “Cannonball!” he yells, leaping into the pool while a bevy of giggling women shriek and get out of the way, squealing playfully.
    Squealing. My