Page 20 of Just Friends Forever
On our way to the bank, Stevie asks to check her phone for messages from her lawyer. Sure enough, she’s got a few of them asking her to call him as soon as possible. She spends the drive talking to him about accounts and pre-nups and properties. I can only hear one side of the conversation, but it’s a reminder to me how different our lives have become. Yeah, I work with clients who have properties—as in more than one—but as for me? I can only dream of affording that someday. Even then, they wouldn’t be up to the standard Stevie’s used to.
There’s mention of a few of the properties—the West Hollywood apartment, which I’ve seen, the Montana cabin, the Miami beach house, and the lake house in Como. It sounds like Curtis is keeping all of them. Shocker.
The two of them met by chance in the lobby of the hotel Stevie’s mom was staying at one weekend. Curtis didn’t waste any time getting her number and giving her a taste of the Hollywood lifestyle. He really went above and beyond, making her feel like a million bucks—by spending about that much.
Stevie finally hangs up just as I pull into a parking space at the bank. I turn off the car but don’t pull out the keys. I just sit and let Stevie process the call. It doesn’t sound like any of it was news to her, but it’s still a lot for one person to handle.
She looks over at me and offers a grimacing smile. “Do you have space on your roster for one more client?”
It takes me a second to register what she’s saying. “Are we talking about my security detail roster or real estate roster?”
Her mouth twitches. “Both. But real estate.”
I pretend to think for a minute. “I couldprobablysqueeze you in. I just have a really high-maintenance security client right now, making me go to banks and grocery stores and just… running me ragged.”
“Right, right,” she says with a faux-sympathetic expression. “That sounds really tough.”
I sniffle and dash away a fake tear. “In this business, people only see me for my incredible strength,” I say in a strangled voice, folding my arms across my chest and making my biceps dance. “It’s like they think I don’t have feelings or needs.”
She rubs my arm, but she’s losing her fight against laughter.
I break into a smile and unfold my arms. “I can’t wait to set up a hotsheet for you.”
“A hot what now?”
“Hotsheet. It alerts you whenever a home listing comes up that matches your criteria.”
“Ah, okay. Gotcha.”
I look toward the grocery store. It’s medium-range as far as size goes, but it doesn’t look too busy right now. I’m not sure if that’s in our favor or not. I’ve been joking about the security detail thing, but I’m genuinely concerned about Stevie being recognized. She made it sound like it’s really unlikely, but in my opinion, Stevie stands out in any crowd.
7
STEVIE
If I’m calculating right,it’s been close to three years since I went grocery shopping for myself. When we step inside, I ignore the impulse to pull my baseball cap lower. Acting suspicious is the surest way to draw attention, and much as I tried to give Troy the feeling that this is no big deal, I’m pretty nervous. Curtis took his image very seriously, so being out in public has always put me on edge. What if I do something wrong and mess everything up?
We’re not married anymore, but I don’t feel entirely free of that burden of responsibility. We’re still tied to each other in people’s minds, even if it’s been a long time since our hearts were knit like they once were.
I push away those thoughts and grab a cart, guiding it past the coffee and bakery displays.
Troy puts a finger to his ear. “Monkey Lover is on the move. Over and out.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing, stopping in front of the vegetables. “Are you my security detail, or a black ops agent sent to assassinate me?”
“If I told you I’d have to kill you.” He narrows his eyes at his own comment, like evenheis struggling to understand what it means.
I grab a produce sack and step forward, but Troy puts out a hand to stop me. “Wait.”
I step back with an amused roll of the eyes. “You’ve always had something against broccoli.”
“It smells like a rotten egg and a wet dish rag had a baby,” he says with unnecessary violence. He straightens his shoulders and continues more calmly. “Anyone, and I meananyone, could be hiding amongst these broccoli stalks, ma’am. I’ve seen it a hundred times. It’s stalking 101.”
“Did you just make a pun about broccoli stalks?”
He grins, then touches his finger to his ear again, his gaze shifting somewhere to my right. “I’ve got eyes at twelve o’clock.”
“Don’t you mean you’ve got eyesonyour twelve o’clock?”
