Page 2 of Stud

Finishing off my piece of almost-better-than-sex chocolate, I turned with a wave, but swiveled back. “What’s a four-letter word for a horny covering?”

Aazam scratched his bearded cheek, then clapped. “Nail!”

“Nail? Like”—I fluttered my manicured hand—“nail, nail?”

“I think so.”

I’d never been a language geek, unless Prada and Gucci were involved. But my new hobby had fired up my synapses, transforming me into a well-dressed linguist, who often cheated to finish puzzles. Aazam, however, was a total word savant. I’d once asked him for a five-letter word for a coastal feature, and he’d said, “Bight,” in two seconds flat.

Apparently a horny covering didn’t involve licking muffs (dammit). Horny coverings were nails.

“You’re a genius,” I called as I hurried out the door.

I hit the road, two unpleasant errands left to round out my day. I tapped my horny coverings against my steering wheel, the edges of my nails clipped and buffed to perfection. Ms. Mae’s hand massage this morning had rendered my skin soft as silk, my mind nearly comatose. And her polish job? My tiger-striped French tips, with their flamingo-pink highlights, deserved to be hung in the Museum of Modern Art.

Picasso had nothing on my nails.

He also had nothing on the azure blue Versace draped over my back seat. I’d strip my nails bare for a night in that dress. It was perfection personified, and the slit up the front would highlight Mrs. Arlington’s legs—her greatest asset. She would be thrilled, which meant her husband would be thrilled, which meant I’d deserve the hefty bonus coming my way.

I should be sale-at-Sephora giddy.

Except for the box of chocolates hijacking my passenger seat. Another gift purchased on my client’s behalf, Mr. Infidelity himself, Thomas Arlington the Third.

His most recent mistress had a soft spot for sweets. In particular, Aazam’s eighty-percent dark chocolate bars sprinkled with cayenne pepper and pistachios. I noticed the packaging in her trash the first day we met, along with a broken pocket mirror. A replacement mirror, with similar gold detailing, had arrived on her doorstep that week, the chocolates following regularly, all punctuated with love notes from her doting philanderer.

Clamping my jaw, I drove faster and turned up the music. Nothing like a little Pat Benatar to lift my mood. Love was a battlefield, all right. A battle I had no interest in joining. Not when it was littered with duped women and lying husbands. Count me in for the pillaging afterward, though. If it came with a straight Aazam, or hunky men in kilts whose Scottish accents could slip into my Victoria Secret Cheekinis, then giddy-up.

Unfortunately, these days, all my oh-my-God-yes-yes-yeses applied to stellar purchases, not savage plundering.

I parked near the Arlingtons’ house. Thomas’s Porsche wasn’t on the street. He could be working or golfing, or invading enemy fields…

I pulled the Versace from the car, cradling the plastic-wrapped fabric like a Fabergé egg.

A doorbell ring later, Sloane swung the door wide. “Just the lady I wanted to see.”

She ushered me past a pair of dirty work boots, the clanging from above hinting at construction work. Remodeling their bathroom, if I remembered correctly. She disappeared into their modern townhome, and I laid her dress over their leather couch. I checked and rechecked my watch, urging the second hand to tick faster.

Spending time with Sloane was always uncomfortable. She’d chat about her morning playing tennis, and I’d smile and answer while thinking, your husband is a lying sack of shit. A sack of shit who helped pay my bills, which allowed me to wire cash to my parents.

My golden handcuffs were cemented in place.

Sloane returned with an envelope and presented it to me. “Thank you.”

I took it by the edge and looked up at her. Even in my pink Manolo Blahniks, I was a head shorter than the statuesque brunette. “Thank you for what?”

“For that dress, for one. Your eye for clothing is remarkable.” She ran her fingers over the clear plastic. “And for always going out of your way for me. I know you work for Thomas, but your help with the shoe emergency was above and beyond. Plus, you’ve become a friend. So, thank you.”

Running over a pair of heels because hers had snapped in the middle of a fundraiser wasn’t part of my job description, but the friend part of her comment had me wanting to slither out of the room. Friends told friends when bad things were happening. Friends saved friends from future heartache. Having been on the receiving end of a cheating manwhore once, I didn’t wish it on anyone.

Without opening the envelope, I pushed it back at her. “Thank you, but I can’t. I’m happy to help.”

Please, get me out of here.

A loud bang blasted from above us, and we both winced. “Bathroom reno is turning into a bit of a nightmare. And”—she raised a sculpted eyebrow at the envelope I was attempting to refuse—“I’m not taking that back. It’s a gift.” She picked up her dress and hugged it to her skinny frame, a body she kept painfully thin (green-vegetable diet), likely for her scumbag husband. “It’s spectacular, Ainsley. Thomas will love it.”

That part I didn’t doubt. Give me ten minutes in someone’s home, and I could list their favorite beverage and coffee addiction, where they purchased their linens, judge their waist, hip, and bust measurements (Sloane was a size celery), and the jewelry they coveted all with a nod and a walkthrough. Which is why Thomas had passed my cards to his friends, and why I mainly shopped for overpaid lawyers who “worked late” and had unscheduled “business meetings.”

I was to personal shopping what Walter White was to methamphetamine. I was great at my job. I loved scouring stores for that oh-my-God-yes-yes-yes item. I also contributed to the downfall of society and needed cash. (Instead of Breaking Bad, my HBO series would be called Killing Love.)