Marrying My Billionaire Hookup

“Still wouldn’t have been able to have it,” I say. “I might need to go out, and I’m not driving after drinking.” Miss Responsible, that’s me. It has nothing to do with the pregnancy test kit in my purse, nope, nope, nope.

We share the sangria while I also enjoy a taco. I haven’t seen Hugo in a while, so I ask him how his job is—anything to avoid thinking about the test kit.

“It’s amazing,” he answers, his eyes shining. “Samantha is amazing. There’s no custody case she can’t fix, no soon-to-be-ex she can’t crush.”

I wonder if my cousin’s emotionally deviant. There’s nothing really adorable about crushing people…

“But it can be heartbreaking for some of the clients. I didn’t realize the extent of the problems a poorly done custody agreement can create. Or not having one at all. The kids always end up getting used as pawns. Seriously, if you’re going to divorce, you have to do it right to avoid a real mess. And the cost!” His eyes defocus for a moment. “Samantha deserves a Nobel Prize.”

I almost choke on my taco. “A what? In what?”

“Peace, of course.” He looks slightly offended.

“Divorce profiteering deserves a Nobel Peace Prize?”

“She’s saving people’s lives. Your friend Kim would’ve been SOL without Samantha.”

Okay, I have to admit that part is true. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to join Hugo’s cult of Samantha worship. I make a neutral noise in my throat.

“Don’t you agree?” Hugo asks. You’d think I was a witness being cross-examined.

Thankfully, my phone rings. I reach for it, placing a finger to my lips. The ID shows it’s one of my clients, Sonia Rosenstein. Her dream is to find success as a model or an actress. Until then, her mega-rich hedge-fund-manager daddy finances her lavish lifestyle in Los Angeles.

“Hello, Sonia. What can I do for you?” I say in my most professional voice.

“Oh my God, Josephine!” she sobs. “You have to save me!”

Oh dear. It’s the same thing she told me, in this exact same tone, when she broke a nail an hour before a Hollywood party. I gird my loins. “What’s wrong?”

“You remember the gala I have tonight?” She’s hyperventilating. “The dress I was going to wear is ruined!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. We spent three interminable hours picking it out. “How?”

“Poochie knocked red wine over it.”

Shit. Poochie is her toy poodle, a dog as neurotic and crazy as its owner. “Don’t you have something similar in your closet?” I ask, mentally flipping through what I bought her in the last few months. “You should have at least four ivory dresses.”

Sonia loves white and cream. Says they make her look ethereal and angelic. Which is true…as long as she keeps her mouth shut.

“I can’t wear any of those! People have already seen me in them!” She’s wailing louder, like being seen in the same dress twice is the worst thing that could happen to her. Well, it probably is, in her myopic world.

“Okay. Give me two hours, and I’ll be at your place.” That should give me just enough time to make myself presentable and drive over. Asking her to wait any longer than a couple of hours is not a possibility because she has the patience of a three-year-old who skipped her nap.

“Actually, no. Meet me at my favorite Starbucks. I need some coffee to soothe my nerves.”

Somebody should point out that drinking caffeine might not be the most soothing thing for nerves. But whatever. Not my job.

I hang up and jump to my feet. “I gotta get ready to go out,” I say to Hugo.

“What’s going on?”

“Client emergency. She can’t be seen in the same dress twice.”

He laughs. “Seriously?” Then he looks at the racks of dresses I have. “Why don’t you give her one of those?”

“Because…” I give him a cool, pointed look. “They’re mine, and her breasts are, uh, highly augmented. They won’t fit.”

“Huh. Okay, well, you want some help?” he says, eyeing the curlers in my hair and my yoga pants.