Page 102 of How To Plot a Payback

Of course, Delilah also described the spa she went to on her birthday as a dump, and she had a caviar lunch there, along with a custom-made 24-karat gold facial mask. Appreciation isn’t her strong suit.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “you deserve better than Delilah.”

He raises a brow. “Big words coming from the woman who broke us up.”

I wince. “You knew about that, did you?”

He’s too gallant to answer, just gives a little shrug.

I almost don’t want to ask, but the question will linger forever if I don’t. “How long have you known?”

“Oh,” he replies, taking in a breath, “I believe your name was dropped in her breakup speech.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry about that. Not that it’s any excuse, but her description of you was . . . well . . .” I struggle to find a word that doesn’t knock a blow to him.

“Made me sound like a maddeningly dull, unadventurous old man who was wasting the prime years of her life on crossword puzzles and farmers markets, depriving her of the full life she deserved in the most adventurous city in the world?”

“No. Of course not.”

But yes. That was exactly how she described him.

He shrugs. “Words straight from her mouth. It’s okay.”

I wince again. “I’m sorry. She’s run in my circle a long time, but she can be . . . well. I’ve learned not to be surprised.”

He shifts in his seat to face me fully. “Let me ask you something. What does Sonya think of her?”

I laugh at the change of course. “Why?”

“Idle curiosity.”

“Well.” I pause, thinking of how to say it. “She declares she’s not sending Delilah any Christmas cards, if that’s any indication.”

The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. “I like Sonya.”

“She is the friend who would shovel the hole for me in a pinch, no questions asked.”

He raises a brow.

“Which she hasn’t. Of course,” I say with a laugh. “Well. Once. But that was for an ill-timed hamster versus dog situation early on in my dog-walking days. But other than that, absolutely not.”

“Has she said anything of me?” he says, eyeing the phone in my pocket. “This woman with such keen judgment?”

“Let’s see.” I slip my phone out.

My eyes run down the lines of messages.

Then fall on one, at which I pinch my lips.

He straightens. “What? What’d she say?”

“Nothing,” I squeak, keeping myself from laughing as I put my phone away.

“What?”

I shake my head.

“Fine.” He turns to face the show.