Page 71 of The Price of Scandal

Jane pulled her tart-less hand free. “He’s a baked goods whore. He always knows when Cristoff is here and comes to mooch.”

“Hey, buddy,” I said, ruffling the fur on Brutus’s giant head. “Did you make a new friend?”

“He stuck his very cold nose against my very unprepared ass,” Derek complained.

I smushed the dog’s face in my hands. “Did you scare the bossy man, Brutus? Did you? That’s such a good boy!”

“How did something this size sneak into your house?” Derek asked, taking another towel and moving to the wall mounted body dryer.

“If there’s a terrace door open in Bluewater, Brutus here will find it and make himself at home,” I explained over the soft whoosh of dryer air. “His parents live across the bridge in one of the houses on Tequila Lane. They rescued him when he was two years old and tried everything they could to keep him contained. But he’s a Houdini. He’s kind of a mascot for the enclave,” I said, reaching for another towel and scrubbing the dog down.

“He showed up for bridge at Mai Ling’s condo last year. There’s security footage of him pushing buttons in the elevator,” Jane said.

Reluctantly, Derek came closer.

“You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?” I asked, surprised.

“I’m afraid of gigantic things that trespass in my shower.”

“Gee, now you know how I feel,” I said, batting my lashes.

“Solid dick joke,” Jane snorted. “Come on, Bruty. Let’s see if Mean Cristoff has any of those organic doggie quesadillas for you.”

With a salute directed at Derek’s groin, Jane ambled out of the bathroom followed by the one-hundred-and-seventy-pound Brutus, leaving me alone with nearly naked Derek.

“And here we are again,” he said, hooking his finger in the drapey neck of my shirt.

“Put some pants on, Price. I’ve got work to do now that I’m done laughing hysterically at you.” I mimicked his manly yelp.

“Darling, someday we’ll tell this story at our fiftieth wedding anniversary as the exact moment you realized you were head over heels for me,” he quipped.

“Did you hit your head in the shower?” I asked sweetly.

* * *

Daisy: WTF, Stanton? You collapse at work and don’t bother letting your posse know?

Luna: Are you alright? Do you need an appointment with my aromatherapist?

Cam: Relax guys. Mr. Naked Dreamy took good care of her. And if my trusty surveillance skills are accurate, his car is still in her driveway.

Daisy: Ooooooooooh! Dick pics or it didn’t happen!

Luna: Sending you my aromatherapist’s contact and a 30-pack of organic, latex-free condoms.

23

Emily

Jane plowed through Bluewater ten miles over the speed limit. Traffic today was even worse than usual. It was as if every unlicensed driver in the city had gassed up their unregistered rust buckets and taken to the roads, double-parking and cutting off law-abiding drivers with abandon.

My mother was going to kill me. She’d called me four times today, each time extracting my promise that I would be at the gala, beautiful, and on time.

The traffic insanity had apparently infiltrated the enclave. We careened through the security gate only to come to a screeching halt when Mrs. Montecito’s golf cart swerved out in front of us. She had a long-standing habit of starting happy hour early, and it looked like today had been two-for-one margarita day at Bluewater’s beach bar.

“Okay, I can shower, dress in two minutes, sit for hair, and do half my makeup in the car,” I decided, recalculating my list.

“You almost lost an eye last time you did your makeup in the car,” Jane said. “Hang on, boss.”