Page 3 of Love in Fine Print

“He exhaled loudly after every sentence,” I clarified before demonstrating. “You look so beautiful tonight.” Loud exhale. “Where do you want to go to dinner?” Audible breath.

“Okay, I get it.” Trevor lifted his hand to shut me up before clicking on his device again. “Fine. What about Mark?”

Another photo appeared of a dark-haired man with blue eyes.

“He said ‘like’ at the beginning of every sentence.”

“And Dylan.”

A blond with a strong jaw appeared on my screen.

“Where are you getting these pictures.”

“Social media.”

“You follow the men I’ve dated on social media?” I asked.

“No!” he quickly shot back as if that would be insane. “Before you go on a date, I do my due diligence?—"

“You mean internet stalk them?”

“Yes,” he stated unapologetically. “And I screenshot top talent for posterity.”

“Posterity?”

He nodded. “So, what was wrong with Dylan?”

“He had small thumbs.” They were tiny. It was distracting.

“Do youhearyourself?”

“Yes.” I still didn’t see the problem. Why would I settle? If something bothered me about someone, I wasn’t going to ignore it. Every day I witnessed people that had done just that and then they ended up in my office.

“You have discarded more quality dick than any person I know.”

“Quality is in the eye of the beholder.”

“No. It’s not.”

There was a knock on my door, Trevor rose and answered it.

George Walters Jr., who had inherited this firm from his father, George Walters Sr., poked his balding head in. “Hey, I just wanted to stop by and see if you’ve heard back from Simpson. I was at the club today and heard he’s getting cold feet.”

Tom Simpson was one of the wealthiest men in Tiburon, a small community filled with affluent people about twenty miles north of San Francisco. He’d been married five times, and I’d handled the last three divorces. His first occurred when I was in high school, and the second was while I was in college.

Walters was right. Tom had had a change of heart about calling it quits with wife number five. But after a brief FaceTime with me this morning, he’d decided to pull the plug. I would never, and had never, encouraged someone who was in a happy marriage to leave. But Tom and Remy were both screwing half their household staff. Which again, no judgment. If everyone was happily turning a blind eye, hey, to each their own. But I’d been tipped off by Gloria, the head of the household staff, that Remy had decided to get pregnant so she’d have a meal ticket for eighteen years.

There was no way in hell I was going to sit back and let a child be used as a pawn. I’d lived that life, and it wasn’t a childhood I would wish on anyone.

“We filed this morning,” I relayed.

“Yes.” Walters pointed at me. “That’s my girl!”

Girl?I was a thirty-five-year-old woman…but, yeah, cool.

Walters clapped his thick, pudgy hands together. “I told ’em, we can always count on the Maneater.”

I pasted on my fakest smile as Walters slammed the door behind him, not even acknowledging that Trevor was in the room. He was such a self-absorbed prick.

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