Escorting the Player (The Escort Collection 3)

* * *

Of course, Jessica would not go quietly. I hadn't spoken with her directly, per Mickey's orders, but he was dealing with the high-powered divorce lawyer she'd hired. Jessica had a long list of d

emands.

"She wants the house?" I screamed into my cell phone. "And half my money? We were only married for two years, for Christ's sake. We don't have any kids."

"She won't get it—not all of it," Mickey said, calmly, "but she's probably looking at alimony because she quit her job to support your career."

I snorted and gripped my phone, close to shattering it. "That's a joke and you know it. Everybody knows it. All she's done is gone shopping, decorate, and get her face blown up with filler. Our marriage was a two-year, all-expenses-paid luxury vacation for her, goddamn it."

"Chase." Mickey's voice bordered on soothing, which was a red flag for me. "She's gonna get a large chunk of your money. You need to wrap your head around that. Now, you can pay me to fight her—we can do all sorts of things to drag this out—but then you're going to spend a fuck-ton of money on legal fees. Which is fine by me." He chortled. "But seriously, if you agree to at least some of what she's asking for, she'll probably settle. I think she wants to be done with this quick."

"Why do you think that?"

He was silent for a second. "Because her lawyer told me so."

"And why is that?"

Another pause. "Because she wants to get married again. As soon as possible."

I surprised myself by laughing. I just sat on the couch and laughed and laughed.

Chapter Four

CHASE

A few days later, my doorbell rang. I sat up. Shit. I'd been wearing the same pair of sweats, doing nothing but drinking beer and eating Chinese delivery and pizza. I was camped out in my living room, the NFL Network on constantly, not even bothering to go to my bedroom to sleep.

But it was only seven a.m. and I hadn't ordered any Chinese food yet.

The doorbell rang again. Double shit. It was probably my mother.

I checked the security camera.

Then I threw the door open. "Shut up."

"No—you shut up," Eric said, coming in and giving me a hug. My agent pulled back, his nose wrinkling below his black, stylish rectangular glasses. "You smell. Worse than usual."

He looked me up and down, taking in the rumpled sweats, which contrasted garishly with his Armani suit. Then he turned and inspected my messy house. "You bringing man-town to the main living room? I like it," he said, his face breaking into a grin. He pushed past me and surveyed the empty takeout cartons, the beer bottles, the blankets and remote controls scattered everywhere haphazardly…

"Jessica would not approve," he said, clapping me on the back, "so I do."

"What're you doing here?" I asked. Eric rarely came up to Boston. He preferred Los Angeles, where there was sun. And women wearing a lot less clothing than they usually wore up here in New England.

He grinned at me. "I talked to Martha. She said she was worried about you. So I thought I'd come up and stage a man-tervention." His eyes flicked to my sweatpants again and then my hair, which was most likely really messed up. "I can see I made a wise choice."

He threw his bag down and stalked into the kitchen. I followed, shuffling behind.

"You want a beer?" I asked.

"It's seven in the morning—four a.m. my time." Eric raised his eyebrows. "We're having coffee."

"I'm having beer."

He took out two mugs, ignoring me, and turned my Nespresso machine on. He eyed the sink filled with dirty dishes, then opened the fridge to find it mostly empty. "Your housekeeper off this week?"

"I think Jessica fired her," I mumbled.