Page 1 of Flirtatious

CHAPTERONE

Mia

How many talkingheads are going to get in on giving their opinion about my life? Their unneeded and unsolicited opinion, as far as I’m concerned.

You’d think these people would have better things to do than dissect every misstep and bad relationship I’ve had in the past few years. I mean, there is an entire world out there revolving around all sorts of things like war and famine and a million other terrible realities, yet these clowns yammer on and on about Mia this and Mia that.

I stretch my legs out across the king size hotel bed with the divine blue comforter and sheets to die for and feel the tension dissipate as I mute the TV. These sheets are heavenly. White cotton like any other I’ve slept in, but oh my God are they comfortable. I’m guessing they have to be at least twelve hundred thread count. I need to find out who makes them so I can get a set for my own bed back at the house.

The house. Ugh. Where everyone, no doubt, is rushing to and fro while pulling their hair out by the roots as they fret needlessly about where I might be. For a moment, I close my eyes and picture everyone looking in horror at their hands full of hair. Just something else to stress out about. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

I can hear all their worrying from here. The queen of worry, my mother, is the worst. “She could be dead in a ditch on the side of the road,” she wails like some fool, all the while wringing her hands.

I’ve never even seen a ditch, much less been in one, dead or alive.

“Maybe someone kidnapped her?” Chloe and Ivy suggest in unison like they often do when they’re excited about something.

Why my makeup artists are always so melodramatic is beyond me. Nobody kidnapped me. They know that and still I’m betting they’ve already said those exact words, which of course, made everyone else freak out even more.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing my shoulders to come back down from around my ears. Maybe they wouldn’t be totally off the mark with their concern. I’ve had more than one stalker since I got big, but none of those guys were ever the kidnapper type. They’re more the kind of people who yearn from afar, but if they ever did get close enough to touch me, they’d probably piss their pants.

My life coach Ainsley is probably attempting, with little luck, to calm everyone down with her Zen sayings none of them will listen to. I like when she does her quiet pep talks, but then again, I’m willing to pay attention and consider the ideas she’s presenting.

My mother and my entourage aren’t fans of the Zen stuff, though. They prefer to swirl around in madness and chaos, which is the reason I had to hire Ainsley as my life coach in the first place.

I glance over at the TV sitting in the dark cherry wood cabinet across the hotel room and see some gray-haired news guy still talking about my sudden disappearance, but now they have an image of my ex Jonny positioned next to the old guy’s head. What on earth could they be saying about my ex-boyfriend?

Unmuting the TV, I heard gray hair explain who Jonny is. Only an old dude like you wouldn’t know he’s the lead singer of the band Punk Slut, man. Jesus. Get with the times already. If you don’t know what the hell you’re discussing, maybe you should stick to segments on shitty politics or the climate crisis you don’t really give a shit about and leave the current stuff to cooler people.

“I’m here with Doctor Elizabeth Walters, a psychologist on staff at New York’s Mercy Hospital whose research on the interpersonal and sexual dynamics of the stars focuses on exactly the kind of issues Mia’s had with her romantic relationships,” old news guy says in his oh-so-solemn tone.

Holy shit! Are they really going to dive into my relationship with Jonny because I’ve been out of the public’s sight for forty-eight hours? Here’s a hint, Doc. We’re going to need more time than they’ve given you to hash out that mess. Jonny and I were a toxic trainwreck from our first kiss.

Do they really think I went back to him? Don’t they pay attention to the gossip that says he’s with that chick who’s the lead singer for Banshee? Guess which couple is fighting tonight, for sure.

“Doctor Walters, if a young woman like Mia were to go missing, as she has, what is the likelihood she’d fall back into old, destructive patterns and return to an ex-boyfriend, even one as notoriously abusive as Jonny Chambers was with Mia?”

Fuck, there’s a lot to unpack there. I don’t think the pretty lady with the perfectly coiffed brunette bob is going to be able to tackle all of that. She was hoping to use this time to pimp her new self-help book she just knows is exactly what women need in this crazy world.

As I suspected before she began talking, Doctor Walters struggles to say anything definitive. Probably because she’s never spoken a single goddamned word to me nor I her. Nice of them to try to diagnose me from miles away.

Not satisfied to assume the worst about me back with my shitty ex-boyfriend, old news guy introduces his second guest, another renowned shrink from some big city hospital I don’t catch before he asks him, “Doctor Chesterbrook, as a psychologist trained to see destructive patterns in patients when it comes to addiction, what can you tell me about all you know concerning Mia?”

Curious how they plan to connect my recent stint in rehab with wanting to disappear from the limelight for two damn days, I sit up and listen to the African American doctor with the giant glasses.

“Well, Mason, I have never been one of Mia’s doctors, but I’m seeing patterns I don’t like with this young woman’s life. I just hope her friends and family are seeing them too and doing all they can to get her the help she needs.”

Damn, Chesterbrook, the doctor with the name that sounds like every rehab I’ve ever heard of. You were going so well there when you actually admitted you’ve never been within three feet of me, so you don’t know a damn thing about me, but then you fell back into what I suspect is your usual spiel about patterns and my needing help.

Two fucking days is all I wanted. Two days without anyone talking to me or telling me what I should do or what I shouldn’t do. Two damn days of peace and quiet in a great hotel room with junk food nobody ever thinks I should eat and a bathtub where I can soak in a bubble bath until my fingertips and toes get all pruney.

Is that so much to ask?

As I glance across the room at the third doctor Mason Cooperman has added to his collection of quacks all eager to talk about my problems, I know the answer is yes. Forty-eight hours, the last two of which I’ve spent watching these fools, and the entire world acts like it’s been set on fire.

Trust me, people. You’d want a couple days alone too if you were me.

I gather up all the wonderful hotel pillows and make a wall next to the headboard as I laugh at all their guesses about me, what I’m doing, and what could be wrong to make me run away like they suspect I have. The lady doctor with the perfect brown hair is absolutely sure I’m off somewhere having a horrible time with my ex but thinking I’m in love. Chesterbrook with the googly glasses is terribly concerned I’ve fallen off the wagon and I’m drinking again and possibly back to using coke, which troubles him even more.

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