Page 6 of The Frog Prince

He’s already divorcing me.

“Another drink?” Aimee, Olivia’s friend, director of fund-raising for the Met Museum, is gesturing to me and my now nearly empty glass.

I look up at her, but I don’t see Aimee; I see Jean-Marc, and we’re on our honeymoon in the South of France.

We’re doing everything big, everything splashy, and I’m standing in the doorway of our suite’s living room, wearing a Victoria’s Secret pink lace teddy and not much else (but the hair’s done, lots of sexy tousled curls, and flawless makeup). I’m smiling at him even as I try not to cry.

You don’t like this?

It’s fine.

You don’t want this?

You look great.

But you don’t want me.

I’m just not in the mood.

It’s our honeymoon, Jean-Marc.

Holly, I can’t.

Why not?

He says nothing.Why not?I shout.

Because I don’t love you that way.

I drain the rest of my hand-shaken fresh-fruit-juice margarita. Tequila’s good. It works. “One more,” I say to Aimee, blinking hard, refusing to cry, refusing to think about the disaster honeymoon, refusing to think about the pile of sexy lingerie that never got worn, refusing to accept that I own more Rosenthal than common sense.

That way?What the hell doesthat waymean?

Touching my tongue to the edge of the salt-rimmed glass, I’m suddenly hugely grateful for tequila and lime juice and mariachi bands. California would be nothing without Mexico.

ChapterTwo

Two strong margaritasand three hours later, I don’t think I can drive home, even if it’s only fifteen minutes across town. I have this thing about driving in San Francisco as it is (scary steep hills, runaway cable cars, foreign tourists snapping photos, unaware that I’m behind the wheel), and I take a cab home instead of my own car.

The cab drops me off in front of my building, the sun having disappeared sometime when I was in the bar, leaving my street of Victorians dark. I check the mail. Nothing good.

I head on up the front steps to the house, needing to enter the front door to reach my door. The owner of the house, Cindy Lee, rented me the apartment after the most exhausting background check ever. But then, as she explained to me later, she lives above me, so she has to be careful. She needs a good, quiet tenant because she often works at home, and fortunately my background check said I was good and quiet, so I got the apartment. Even if I’m not exactly financially solvent.

But who is solvent these days? Economics are brutal. Everyone’s trying to keep ahead of the tax man and MasterCard.

At least I have a job. And an apartment (for now). Which makes me better off than 99.99 percent of the people in the world, and right now strong fresh-fruit-juice margaritas are creating a nice little buzz in my head.

Unlocking my apartment door, I hear footsteps descend the staircase above my head, and I try to shove myself into my apartment before I’m seen.

“Holly.”

I stop shoving myself. I turn, watch hiking boots appear. Jeans. A man’s muscled thighs. Hips. Chest. Indecently broad shoulders. It’s Drew, Cindy’s significant other, and he’s carrying a bike on his shoulder. The guy’s a sports freak. And so good-looking it makes my eyes hurt.

“Hi, Drew.” I wish I’d escaped. Cindy’s not tall, but she’s lean, mean, looks killer even in padded biking shorts, and I look nothing like Cindy. Besides, Cindy’s a savvy decision maker. She’s aggressive. She plays to win. I don’t know that game.

“How are you settling in?”

“Fine.” Drew and I have bumped into each other only a couple of times, but he’s always really nice, very friendly—not that Cindy appreciates the friendliness. She’s never rude to me, but she doesn’t invite conversation. She doesn’t want conversation. She’s made it clear on several occasions (like when two weeks after I first moved in, when I asked if I could borrow an egg since I’d dropped one) that I’m her tenant. I’m just business. Nothing more.