Page 1 of The Upgrade

CHAPTER1

EVE

“Come on!” Jamming my horn with one hand, I deploy the other in the universal gesture forstop-texting-and-drive. “I’m late and you’re being an asshole.”

The asshole looks up from his phone, surprised to discover he’s behind the wheel of a moving car.

“Shocker, right?” I mutter a curse as the driver speeds up, still texting. Of course he is. It’s the asshole thing to do.

I’ve dated my share of assholes, so trust me. I could spot one even if someone poked out my eyes with popsicle sticks.

But I’ve also dated great guys and sowed some wild oats—such sinfully tasty oats—before findingThe Oneand settling down with my nice, normal guy for a well-deserved happily ever after. Right?

Wrong.

So fucking wrong I can’t even see right as I screech through a yellow light praying there aren’t any cops. A ticket would be the icing on this shitcake of a month.

“Text The Strumpets,” I shout at my phone, half expecting it to dial my mother. See aforementioned shitty month.

But in a rare show of kindness, my phone—or the universe?—cues up the group text with my besties.

“What would you like to say to The Strumpets?” chirps the helpful robotic voice from my passenger seat.

“Running late,” I dictate, spotting a parking space three blocks from Olive or Twist. Another nice sign from the universe? “Almost there. Please order me a double?”

There’s awooshas my phone sends the message. I lurch into the parking spot before a guy in a douchey black Mercedes beats me to it.

Brock drives a white car just like that. What a stupid color.

Everything about Brock is stupid.

“Sorry, sorry.” I’m wheezing from my sprint as Camille and Sara get up to greet me, shuffling around our usual table. There’s an icy gin martini in front of my regular seat with two perfect olives on a spear.

“I love you.” My eyes cloud with tears for the thousandth time this month. These friends mean so much more than any drink. “You’re angels.”

Camille snorts. “Hardly.” She wraps me in a hug that eases the strain from my shoulders. “We’ve got you, babe. Just breathe, okay?”

She’s a therapist, so of course she knows how to handle my meltdowns. I’ve had plenty these past few weeks. What did I do to deserve friends this fantastic?

“It’ll all be fine.” I suck in a few rapid breaths as she squeezes me, but it doesn’t fix things.

My fiancé’s still an asshole.

Ex-fiancé.

“Goddammit.” Why am I crying again?

“Here.” Sara tucks a folded tissue in the fist that’s clutching Camille’s shirt. “We’ve got you, sweetie.”

“Thanks.” God, I love my friends. I swipe at my face with the Kleenex, but I don’t let go of Camille. “I’m mad-crying, not sad-crying.”

“We know. We’ll get you through this.” Sara wraps her arms around both of us, containing us all in a group hug. “Did you rescue your cat, or do I need to go punch Brock in the dick?”

I choke on a laugh, sputtering tears onto Camille’s cute Stella McCartney top.

See? This is why I love my girls. Sweet, mild-mannered Sara is willing to maim my ex’s beef sword just for me.

“I got him,” I say, and Camille hugs me tighter. “Bratwurst, I mean. He’s safe with your mom, eating canned tuna.”

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