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“When I talk to her, am I talking to your assistant or your girlfriend?”

“Does it matter?”

“If I think I’m talking to the assistant and hurt the girlfriend’s feelings and you get pissed, yeah, it’s gonna fuckin’ matter.”

Jude stood. “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking to assistants in a way that could hurt their feelings.”

“Hell,” Grant muttered. “You’re not staying for lunch?”

“Nah. I’m gonna go get my girl.”

“Great.” The waiter delivered his drink, and Grant downed half of it in one gulp. “Try to keep the PDA to a minimum until we’ve got a media plan, will you?”

“I’ll do my best.” Pulling a few bills out of his pocket, he dropped them on the table. “Thanks, Grant.”

“For what?” Grant asked, sarcasm dripping. “Caving to blackmail?”

Jude held out a hand. “For not making me choose.”

Grant sighed and took his hand. “I still think this is a bad idea, but for your sake—and mine—I hope it works out.”

Taking the self-centering philosophically—after all, he’d expected nothing less—Jude just nodded. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Grant released his hand and waved him away. “All right, get out of here. Go find your girl and live happily ever after or whatever the hell.”

“That’s the plan,” Jude said and headed for the door.

Brynn wasgrateful she’d texted Esme that she’d be coming by, and Esme had responded with a day pass to the expo and directions on how to find her. The pass made getting in easy, and without the directions she’d never have managed to find Esme in the sea of tattoo artists, vendors, and enthusiasts.

She’d spotted the banner with the name of Esme’s tattoo shop on it and was almost there when she happened to look at the booth next door, where a small crowd had gathered to watch whatever was happening. She started to walk around them, and the crowd parted just enough for her to see in the booth.

She stopped dead and stared. “Is that guy getting his penis tattooed?”

The guy next to her grunted. “Yep.”

“With what?” Brynn wondered.

“That,” the guy said, pointing to a drawing hanging up at the back of the booth.

Brynn blinked at it. “That’s Scooby-Doo.”

“Guy must have lost a bet,” someone else speculated.

“Brynn,” Esme called, waving from her booth next door, and Brynn slipped through the crowd to join her.

“You made it,” Esme said with a smile. She wore snug jeans and a black tank top, her black hair was up in a high ponytail that put the streaks in her hair on full display, and her lips were painted murder red.

“Barely,” Brynn replied, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder to see how Scooby was coming along. “I’m not interrupting your work, am I?”

“I finished with a client a few minutes ago, and I’m due for a break. I’m taking fifteen, Chris,” Esme called to the lanky, dark-haired man doing a leg piece at the back of the booth on a bored-looking guy playing on his phone.

Chris jerked his chin in acknowledgment, the needle never leaving his client’s skin, and Esme motioned for Brynn to follow. “Come on. We’ve got a couple of chairs stashed behind the booth. I’ll buy you an energy drink.”

“Got anything decaffeinated?” Brynn asked, ducking through the drape behind Esme. There were two folding chairs with a battered Igloo cooler between them.

Esme flipped the lid of the cooler back. “Water okay?”

“Perfect.”

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