“I’m here every Sunday.” She says slowly. “You approve my—”
“Right. Right. Hungover. Sorry.” Now I feel like a first-class idiot.
“Do you want me to get you anything?”
I shake my head. She leaves quietly and I fall back in my chair. Of course it’s Sunday. I hit the bar last night with the boys on our usual day and ended up with Kate. Memories hit me in the gut, slowly piling back into place to fill in the holes from the night before.
She looked fucking fantastic in that red dress. Buying me drinks was a dangerous game and she looked ripe to play. And eat. I didn’t believe her for a minute, but when I opened the door she was sprawled across a chaise, dressed in lace like she was waiting for me.
My cock jumps in my pants at the memory. She was gorgeous, brazen. I fully intended to have her screaming all night and deal with the fucking consequences later. Something happened, though, and she flipped shit.
“Mr. Stevens?” Sophie pops her head back in. “I think you need to see this, since you’re here.”
She drops a stack of tabloids on my desk. David is on the front cover of every one, but a different girl is on his arm or in his lap. Every headline spews the same thing: David McArthur is moving on.
I run a hand through my hair and toss one on the stack. It slides on the floor and Sophie jumps slightly to avoid it. This asshole’s claim hinges on his plea that he still wants to make the marriage work, but he’s hopping around from bed to bed, making my life that much more difficult.
“You have…” Sophie clears her throat through a giggle. “You have something on your cheek.”
I wipe it off, still studying the photos. First, David needs to stay the fuck out of Hollywood and away from any camera. Second, I need Kate to start looking as bad as him. Right now, she’s all charity galas and yoga classes and sob stories at lunch with her girlfriends. If she wins the judge over with her tears, I can kiss my big bonus goodbye.
“It’s still there.”
I glare at Sophie. She grabs a tissue off the desk and moves to wipe it for me, but I block her.
“I’m a grown man, Sophie.”
“Right. Sorry, Mr. Stevens.”
“Draft a letter to McArthur and tell him to keep his goddamn dick in his pants. Tell him to leave the city for a few days if needed, but he’s under strict orders to not go anywhere or do anything unless I say it’s okay. And bill twice for this shit, because I’m tired of telling him.”
Sophie nods and hurries out of the room. Once she’s gone, I go into my office bathroom and flick on the light. It burns and my head hurts, but I see it right away. A smear of lipstick on my cheek.
More holes patch. After Kate left the bar, I stumbled into a small bachelorette party in the elevator. That was fucking fun. I wash it off and remember that was why Kate lost her shit: the lipstick. It’s not like I’m her new goddamn husband. I’m the enemy. Lipstick on my cheek shouldn’t mean anything.
None of this should matter. She’s hot, yes, but I have a lot of money riding on her sinking into oblivion. Just disappointing we didn’t get to fuck. I bet she’s delicious.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Paxton drops into a chair, dressed in dark jeans and a polo shirt. He got the memo it wasn’t a weekday. “It’s Sunday. Why are you wearing a suit?”
“Long story.” I ditch the jacket and roll up my sleeves, but I’d kill for a pair of basketball shorts right now. “What are you doing here?”
“Had to pick up some files for the Giraldi case. How did it go last night with the brunette?” He waggles his brows at me.
“She freaked. I had lipstick on my cheek or some shit from a bachelorette party last night.” I shrug. “All they did was kiss me for some scavenger hunt. I guess Kate’s just as crazy as David claims.”
“Fucking broads.” Paxton says.
“I concur. So, David’s being a fucking moron again?”
“Every goddamn day, Pax. This fucker can’t keep it in his pants for longer than a day. How he stayed married this long, I don’t know. The media is having a field day with this shit.”
Kate was a saint for enduring his fuckery, not that I’d ever tell her. None of these women could compete with her, either. They look like Los Angeles scum, half-naked girls trying to climb through the ranks of wealth and fame based on their fake tits and utter lack of personality. Kate has more than the body, she’s got class and passion and…
“I don’t know what to do with him.” I cut myself off and shake my head. Hangovers usually fuck with me, but this one seems especially bad. Why am I spending so much time thinking about Kate?