When he pulled over, I hopped out, grabbing the set bag and running around to help Nicole. I rounded the back end of the car and saw the couple, running across the road in between moving traffic, their hands linked. My feet froze in place, Nicole huffing out an irritated sigh as she snatched the bag away. I stuttered out an apology, pulling my gaze away from the couple and busied myself getting Nicole on her way inside.

When I looked back, my hand on the car handle, they were gone.

“Why didn’t you tell me Carter had a girlfriend?” I flung open the door to Joey’s trailer and glared, my hands braced on the open doorframe. Next time I rushed across town to confront someone; I was going to pack flats. I pushed that thought aside and was stuck with the mental image that had been playing on repeat: Carter and a brunette, running hand in hand across the street like they were on a freakin’ Hallmark card.

Joey glanced up from the sofa, a half-eaten donut in hand, mouth full. Setting it on a napkin, he reclined against the leather and wiped at his mouth. “Hi, Chloe. It’s great to see you too.”

“Uh … do you guys need privacy?” Hannah piped from the recliner, her feet tucked under her butt, a clipboard on her lap.

“I hope so.” Joey smirked.

“No,” I barked, pulling the door shut and stepping closer, my hands settling on my hips, my feet burning. “Well?”

Joey finished off the donut, taking his time, my fingers itching to yank open his mouth and pull out a response. “Carter doesn’t have a girlfriend,” he finally said, sucking the end of a powder-coated finger.

“I’m gonna head out,” Hannah interjected with a loud whisper, her exit barely noticed in my irritation.

“Stop covering for him. I saw them. The brunette with the long legs? Giant boobs?”

“Oh,” he grinned. “You mean Brit.” He laughed. “God, Chloe, you should see your face right now.”

I wondered, in that moment, if I could kill the movie’s lead and not get kicked off set. If Hannah would help me hide his beautiful body or if she’d turn me in. I wasn’t paranoid. In their cross of that street, I’d had seen the grin on her face, the way their fingers were linked, the affectionate pull of her hand. Not that I had a claim on Carter but WTF. “Who’s Brit?” I gritted out the name.

“Brit. She’s … ah…” He grinned at me in the naughty way that made moviegoers everywhere swoon. “She’s a fuckbuddy.”

“A fuckbuddy.” I repeated the crass term, not sure how I felt about it. Should I be happy that it wasn’t a real relationship? Then again … I frowned. Was I just two or three nights away from being a fuckbuddy myself?

“You look stressed,” Joey remarked, reaching forward and grabbing another donut from the bag. “I can see your wrinkles from here.”

“Bite me.” I stumbled right and collapsed into the recliner that Hannah had so conveniently vacated.

“You like him, huh?” He passed me the bag of donuts, and I took one, careful not to get powdered sugar all over myself.

“I don’t know,” I grumbled, picking one. “Where’d you get these?”

“Hannah.”

“I need a Hannah.” I sighed, sinking deeper into the chair, and he laughed.

There was a long pause while we chewed, and I took a sip of coffee from his offered cup. “Don’t worry about Brit,” Joey said, glancing over at me. “They’re just friends.”

Friends … who have sex. The words hung in my mind even if they didn’t leave his lips. Men didn’t understand. They thought there could be sex without emotion but that didn’t work. You couldn’t get along, enjoy each other’s company, and have smoking hot sex without someone’s feelings getting involved. At least I couldn’t.

“Besides,” he drawled, leaning forward and patting my leg. “She’s got nothing on you.”

Oh yeah. What man liked giant breasts and a supermodel smile? I was dusting powdered sugar off my shirt, a smartass response on the tip of my tongue, when the trailer door opened, and the last person I expected to see stepped in.

And I’d thought my day was bad before.

46. The Worst Time to See Your Ex

There were times when you wanted to see an ex. When you were looking fabulous and hanging on the arm of a billionaire. When you were out with your girls and having the time of your single life.

You didn’t want to see him in Joey Plazen’s trailer with powdered sugar smeared on your skirt, your ego recently trampled by a maintenance guy. I jerked to my feet, a chunk of donut dropping to Joey’s floor. “Vic?”

He stood in the doorway of the trailer, the sun streaming in behind him in a halo effect. The man always did know how to make an entrance. He stepped inside and closed the door, Joey moving forward, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Worth. I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

Mr. Worth? I grimaced and crossed my arms.

“Plans changed,” Vic said smoothly, shaking Joey’s hand, his Rolex glinting from under the sleeve of his suit. I gave him that watch, back when I spent weekends with Daddy’s AmEx in my wallet and eight inches of Vic in my hand. He’d never wore the watch much then; go figure he’d wear it now. “They’re giving me a tour in twenty minutes, then we’re going over the budgets. I wasn’t sure if I’d have another chance to come by. Sorry if I interrupted anything.” He turned to me and smiled. “Hey beautiful.” He stepped forward, his hands outstretched as if he was going to hug me, and I stopped that shit right there—moving away, my hand held up.

“What are you doing here?” I sounded accusatory and bitchy, and Joey stiffened, but I didn’t care how it came out because this was my world and Mr. Worth didn’t have a place in it. He didn’t belong here, in Joey’s trailer, his arms reaching for me.

“Mr. Worth is our newest investor,” Joey supplied, stepping forward with a smile, his glare sending a dozen messages, the main ones: be nice and this guy is important.

“The newest investor?” I repeated slowly. “On Boston Love Letters?”

“Joey, could we have a minute?” Vic asked smoothly, moving aside to clear the exit.

“Absolutely, Mr. Worth,” Joey said, and I swore on my life, if he kept calling Vic that, I’d chop off his balls myself. The trailer door opened, then shut, the trailer infinitely smaller even though there was one less person.

“Chloe,” Vic said softly, and I knew, right then, in that one word, I was in trouble.

That’d always been the problem with us. I just couldn’t resist the man.

47. The Hardest Kind of Drug

I was not a strong woman. I was weak, and still, over a year after our parting, deeply in love with this man. This man who was not good for me. This man who had a hundred faithful and dedicated bones in his body, but four or five wildly promiscuous ones, bones that jumped out of order occasionally and had their fun. Bones that shattered promises, ruined happily-ever-afters, and broke apart soulmates.

The sound of my name on his lips … it was a drug. A narcotic high heightened by Joey Plazen shutting the trailer door and leaving the two of us alone in this small, dim space. Vic stepped closer, and a light hint of his cologne flooded me with a hundred memories. For a thousand mornings, noons, and nights, this man was my future. I had picked out apartments, made post-graduation plans and browsed engagement rings, all with his hand in mine. And despite his lies and my broken heart, hearing him whisper my name was all it took. I crumbled.