Shanna blushes a little. “Julia’s the bestseller,” she says, grinning. “And she actually writes under her own name. That’s kind of rare in our profession.”
“So I can actually find Julia Stevens at the bookstore?” Mike says. “I like that.”
“Just seemed like the honest thing to do,” I say with a laugh and a shrug.
“Honest?” Nate says. And there he goes. Tightass McGee makes a harrumphing noise deep in his throat. If I were a little more polite, and hadn’t just had a glass or two of fabulous afternoon prosecco, I might let this one go. But I’m not, and I have, so I won’t.
“Got a problem with your throat? Lozenge?” I ask, smiling sweetly. “Need some hot tea with honey?”
I’m not letting it go gracefully. Nate sighs.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” he says, his deep, rich voice going deeper and richer with condescension. Such condescension. Oh, do me now. “I just think the whole romance thing leads to unrealistic expectations. Expectations that do harm down the line.”
He reclines slightly in his chair, gorgeously imperious. If Mr. Darcy was a modern man with a rolling suitcase, a stick shoved way up his ass, and no actual redeemable qualities, he might be this guy.
Now everyone’s kind of stewing in awkwardness, and my blood is boiling. Mike clears his throat, obviously telling Nate to shut the hell up.
“Well, what line of work are you in?” I say, crossing my arms.
“Divorce attorney,” he replies, his tone effortless and cool. His gaze locks with mine, his eyes the deep blue of a perfect midnight sea filled with fucking nasty sharks. “Too many couples come into my office because they’re incompatible. Normally, you do a little digging and find it’s a lot of dissatisfaction on the wife’s part.” He adopts a slightly higher tone of voice. It’s a little whiny, too. “ ‘He’s not spontaneous. He’s not enthralling. He doesn’t go down on me enough.’ ”
Nate raises his hand, and a waiter instantly appears. Doesn’t surprise me that he’s the kind of guy people instinctively know to serve right away. Nate orders three scotches on the rocks—imagine that, ordering for his friends—and the waiter’s off like a shot. Nate Tightass is clearly used to getting his own way. And he is pissing me right the fuck off.
“So you blame marital issues on the romance industry?” I say, digging my nails into my thigh. Legally, it beats sinking them into his perfect, arrogant throat. Though it’s not nearly as satisfying.
Nate shrugs. “I blame it on society selling women—and men, to be fair—a bill of goods. Men, we’ve got the Sports Illustrated swimwear issue and porn to get us started down the path to inevitable disappointment. With women, it starts even earlier, in infancy. You know. Disney princesses and all that other horseshit.”
Horseshit? Fuck you. I will defend my Belle and Mulan awesome warrior princess road comedy fan fiction to the fucking death.
“So what you’re saying is that love, chemistry, mutual happiness, it’s all a huge fucking farce?” Meredith says, her voice so flat it could be mistaken for a county in Nebraska.
Tyler is staring at all of us with his mouth slightly open. Clearly, he doesn’t know what to say.
“I should be grateful. If people didn’t swallow the wrong messages, the wrong ideas about lasting love, I’d be out of a job,” Nate says, staring me right in the eyes. “How about you, Ms. Stevens? Found your happy ending yet?”
I could lie to him. But before I think to do anything that smart, I tell the truth.
“I’m divorced.” I swallow after I say it. No matter how many times I speak the words, think them, it’s still a gut punch.
“I see,” he says, no emotion in his voice. His dark blue eyes seem to sparkle with gleeful light. “Too bad you didn’t come to me. I could’ve gotten you a hell of a settlement.”
My life is in tatters, and this asshole is making jokes about it. Apparently even his friends think this is over the line.
“Nate, what the fuck?” Mike says. His eyes are flashing, angry. The normal one has had enough. “The fuck is wrong with you, man?”
And for the first time, I see Nate the Tightass freeze and look regretful. Not because of me, probably, but he’s basically pissing on the idea of lasting love at his friend’s goddamn bachelor party. Nate clears his throat.
“I’m only saying what my experience has been,” he says at last, though maybe with the tiniest hint of remorse.
And I could be the grown-up here, get up and walk away all nice and quiet. But lucky me, the booze arrives just as I’ve reached my limit. Three scotch on the rocks. Before he can take the glasses, I grab one tumbler.
“Experience this,” I say, dumping the expensive contents on his shirt. He jumps like a very alcoholic spider just bit him. I slam the glass down, grab my trusty purple suitcase, and roll away at high speed.
Blood’s pounding in my temples, and the edges of my vision are blurring with tears.