Page 6 of You Complicate Me

One black brow lifted. “Really? 5.7 percentage points, huh?”

She nodded. “It’s a fact. And, of course, I have my own personal experience to go on.”

“And what experience might that be?”

“I showed Bobby Jorgenson my appendix scar in the seventh grade. His direct quote: ‘that’s so hot’.”

He chuckled, and Grace felt an irrational surge of warmth at the sound. “I’d have to say good old Bobby was probably referring to your body, not your scar,” he said. Then he glanced over at her and wiggled his brows comically while adding, “Although I’d need to see it to be sure.”

She smiled. “Now there’s the Clarence-Thomas-like letch I’ve so enjoyed in our short time together. Welcome back.”

“Wow, love the Clarence Thomas reference. You could’ve gone for an obvious Weinstein reference, but you went with a classic. I appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well, smart girls are usually into the classics, and I’m very smart,” she joked.

“I noticed.”

And didn’t sound entirely pleased about it, if she hadn’t missed her guess. Maybe he preferred dumb bimbos. He wouldn’t be the first, she thought sourly. Her husband had left her for a dumb bimbo with Cheeto-colored skin, giant silicone double-D’s, and a tongue stud.

“So tell me about your brother,” Nick said.

Grace smiled. “Michael’s great. You’ll love him. Everyone does.”

Nick snorted. “He’s banging my little sister. I doubt I’ll love him. I’m sure I can tolerate him, though, as long as he’s good to her.”

Grace stiffened. “Hey, I’m not really loving the idea of the little brother I read Goodnight Moon to every night until he was ten banging anyone, either. But it’s a two-way street. She’s banging him, too. At least he’s marrying her.”

His noncommittal grunt told her he was just as thrilled about the two nineteen-year-olds getting married as she was. “Is he like you?”

“He’s open and outgoing and creative—he’s an artist—and a total optimist…so, no, he’s not anything like me.”

“Not a Valium-and-tequila kind of guy?”

She sighed. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

His mouth quirked up. “Nope. It was the high point of my career.”

Stupid amazing-looking smart-assed man, she thought.

“What about you, angel? I know you’re a fancy corporate lawyer, and I’ve heard all about your awesome family from my sister,” he said, adopting a silly soprano lilt on the word awesome. “But tell me about you. Is there some big burly boyfriend who’s going to kick my ass for groping yours?”

Grace laughed out loud. “No. No boyfriend. I have an ex-husband, but he certainly won’t be defending my honor anytime soon.”

Brad simply wasn’t the honor-defending type. Harvard grads were too dignified for that. He’d expect her to defend her own honor.

“What happened with that?”

“He met someone he liked better.”

Nick frowned. “He sounds like a dumbass.”

Hearing that felt better than it should have. “Well, I don’t call him doucheBrad for nothing.”

He chuckled. “At least you’re not bitter.”

She really wasn’t. Not anymore, at least. After an initial bout of anger—during which she burned piles of his Brooks Brothers suits in their backyard barbeque pit like a jilted lover from a bad Lifetime movie—she was willing to admit to herself that she and Brad had been growing apart for a long time. If they’d ever really been together in their four years of marriage, that is.

Looking at it objectively, she was actually a little relieved that he’d walked out first. Chesty Cheeto had most likely saved her a long, uncomfortable talk when it came right down to it. And at least doucheBrad had the decency to tell her the truth when he started schtupping his dumb bimbo.

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