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Sighing, I pluck the unlit cigarette from my lips and set it down.

I need something to drink anyway. On my way to the kitchen, I will pass by and give her a once-over.

If she’s drunk, and indeed talking to the remote, I will come back, turn on some music for my nosy neighbors, and put my headphones on to drown out the rest of this crazy night.

I can do that.

It’s not like I’m really checking on her. I’m just ensuring she won’t destroy the remote or lash out at any of my shit. I’m protecting my assets and my lease agreement. The deposit wasn’t that much, but I’d prefer not to lose it.

I throw on a shirt and head out into the hall, where the whimpering becomes more apparent. She’s not just sniffling now. She’s holding back some massive sobs.

This isn’t my thing. I don’t do crying women.

The last time I witnessed a woman cry was when my mother found out she had MS. Her sobs are still burned in my memory. I wasn’t equipped to deal with it back then, and I certainly am not equipped to deal with it now. Crying girls are not in my wheelhouse.

“Press the button! Remember what he did!”

What the fuck? Is she giving herself a pep talk? And what button is so damn important that she needs to press it? Dammit. Now I have to know. Call it fucking curiosity. Maybe she really is crazy and just hides it well. Sebastian always says the prettiest ones have the craziest personalities.

I pad down the hall, careful not to interrupt her sobs, and come to a stop a few feet in front of the sofa.

There, hugging the spare pillow from my bed—I’m not a complete shit of a host—sits the brave girl I admired earlier today.

The one who begged me to hear her out. This time, though, instead of a strong jaw and a smart mouth, she sits curled over her knees with swollen eyes glaring down at her phone, a grip so tight it’s turning her knuckles white.

“Should I pull out the fire extinguisher?”

Shitty thing to lead with, I know, but again, crying women are not my thing.

She pulls her murderous glare from her phone and aims it straight at me. I’ll be honest. It unnerves me a little. Not enough to deter me, though. I’ve seen better.

“Are you going to need to raid my freezer too?” I head to the kitchen, ignoring the heated glare I can feel on my back.

Please, God, don’t let her have one of my kitchen knives stashed in the cushions.

“Full disclosure, it’ll cost you another favor.

” I’m lying, don’t go all girl power on me.

Someone needs to pull her out of this spell, and I’m all she has at the moment. Poor girl.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Maverick?”

I roll my eyes. Here we go. Why must they all ask this question?

Shouldn’t the rumors squash this question?

“No, but let me warn you that girl talk and boy bashing will cost you another favor. Choose your questions and comments carefully.” I pour myself a glass of water from a jug I keep in the refrigerator, and before I put it up, I take out another glass and pour her one too.

For free. Because I’m feeling charitable at the moment, and I’m not so sure she isn’t armed.

“So you don’t know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest, do you? A pain so violent that you can’t bear to delete the memories of your past.”

Whoa. Is that what she’s trying to do? Delete pictures of her and what’s-his-name? I thought she said this would blow over, and she wasn’t heartbroken over it?

Without looking directly at her—she looks a little wild—I take a sip of water and decide for once in my life to answer honestly.

The poor girl looks like she can’t take many more lies.

“I’ve never had my heart ripped out by a girlfriend, but I do know the pain of losing the most important woman in my life.

” Let her piece that statement together if she wants.

“Oh,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” She hiccups, but the comment seems to have settled her.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.” I take her the glass of water and hand it over.

“Will this cost me a favor?”

I deserve that. Honestly, it makes me smile. I like a client who learns quickly.

“It’s on the house.”

“I thought you didn’t do freebies?”

See what I mean? She remembers too much. She has to go.

“I also don’t do guests, but here you are.”

She bites her lip and mumbles, “Here I am.”

I take a seat on the coffee table, directly in front of her. She seems calmer, and the air feels a little safer. “What’d she do tonight?” I’m referring to the Tessa or Tonya girl she used to live with. She gave her a hard time last night if I remember correctly .

“He moved in with her.”

“Who? Your ex-boyfriend?” No, I’m not stupid, but with women, you never know what upsets them. Not that I have a whole lot of experience, but Sebastian has made more than a few cry and run to me for help. Never mind. I just need to be sure we are talking about the ex and not a stepdad or something.

“Yes. Tucker, my cheating asshole boss and former boyfriend, moved in with my cheating ass roommate and coworker.”

Now she’s just being a smartass.

“And this upsets you?”

“Yes! Would it not upset you if your girlfriend moved your roommate in with her?”

I want to answer honestly and tell her no because that would never happen with me.

I don’t allow people to become that valuable to me—to have enough power to control my emotions.

Everything is a deal in my life. Nothing is organic or free.

Except for Sebastian and Rowan, but even then, I think I could write them off with a minimal headache if they were to betray me.

“I would move on. You shouldn’t mourn the loss of a lie.”

Wrong thing to say.

“Tucker and I weren’t a lie! He loved me!”

Okay, therapy time is over. It’s time to remind her why she’s in this situation—some tough love or the truth. “He bent your friend over your pink sheets and fucked her so hard that she bit the fabric and screamed out his name.”

She rears back, her plump lips forming an O. “Shut up! He did not!”

Maybe not on her pink sheets. They could be blue or some shit, but rest assured the bastard more than likely fucked her on Ainsley’s bed.

She needs to let this dick go and get some sleep—hell, so we can both get some sleep.

I need the girl from earlier. “While you were making him the perfect dinner, she was riding his cock in the back seat of her car.”

“Stop! ”

I’m not going to stop. She needs to hate him or delete the fucking pictures, whatever the end game is here.

“While you were texting him that you couldn’t wait to see him, he was texting Tiffany with all the things he would to do her as soon as he got away from you.”

“No!”

The sobs that shake her entire body almost get me to stop, but the finger she moves to the screen, hovering over the picture, keeps me firm. “Press the button, Ainsley.”

“He loved me.” Her voice sounds defeated. I should feel better that she’s doing what I want—that she’s letting go, but instead of turning back, I ignore the pain that throbs behind my ribs. In the morning, if I have to search all day, I am finding her an apartment. I’m not doing this again.

“He might have loved you once, but he doesn’t anymore. He used you, Ainsley. He threw you away like last season’s Christmas sweater.”

I watch her chin quiver, and like a bastard, I keep going. “Press the button.” God, forgive me.

With one last scream of anguish, she jams her finger to the screen and deletes the picture. And then another one. And another. She’s so consumed with cursing her screen, she doesn’t even notice when I get up and leave.