“Shelbs! Stop it.”
“What?” she asks. “How is any of this bad? A mega-hot, filthy rich, possessive-in-all-the-right-ways man is interested in you! Not aboy, like the string of losers you’ve hooked up with in the past…aman.”
“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically. “You’re making me feelmuchbetter after my crap day.”
Shelby makes an impatienttsknoise. “I have absolutely no idea why you aren’t currently ripping off every article of his clothing. With yourteeth. Hell, if I weren’t married…Whew!The things I would do to that man.”
“You have a husband.”
“I also have an imagination. Anactiveone.” Her eyes gleam.
“Gross,” I mutter. “And for your information, I have plenty of good reasons for staying away from Chase Croft — starting with the fact that all men are rat bastards and ending with the fact that a woman stopped by the gallery this morning andthreatened meto stay away from him.”
“Bitches be crazy.” Shelby shrugs. “He’s been at the top ofPeoplemagazine’s ‘Richest 50 Under 50’ list for the past few years — it doesn’t surprise me that women are trying to stake a claim, even if it’s not theirs to stake.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too… until she called his answering machine while I was in his apartment. He was in the other room, but I heard the voicemail pick up.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“She called himbaby.”
Her eyebrows go even higher.
“And she calledherselfhis fiancée.”
“What!?” Shelby explodes.
“See! He’s a rat bastard.”
“More like High Chancellor of the Rat Bastards.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, glad she’s finally on the same page.
She’s totally silent for a minute — uncharacteristically so — until she murmurs, in a soft voice totally unlike her usual deafening tones, “Sorry, Gem.”
“For what?”
“I could tell how much you liked him.”
I sigh, but don’t deny it.
I can’t.
Because she’s right.
***
My day quickly goes from bad to worse.
Around six, I grab the Red Line from Shelby’s place in Somerville back to my apartment, only to find approximately ten million reporters (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little) in front of my building.
I detour three blocks out of my way, circle around to the back, and begin to pick a path through the trash-littered alley toward the rear entrance… only to find another five million (possibly exaggerating again) reporters have finally caught on to my sneaky ways and are there, cameras at the ready, waiting for me.
A cry goes up when they spot me, photo flashes snapping so bright, my corneas will never be the same. The mob rushes forward, all screaming at the same time, their voices blending together into a cacophony that hits me in a solid wave of sound. Washing over me. Dragging me under. Drowning me.
And it’s annoying.Reallyannoying.
Because, the thing is, I’m an adult.