marry me as soon as possible when there was a rumor about him and one of his professors, should have been big, red warning signs flashing in my face. I know, now, that he married me to try to prove something to himself that wasn’t real.
“We do have Walt, though. Kris wasn’t bad in bed,” I said, enlightening her. “I just should have been suspicious when he only ever wanted to fuck from behind . . . and anal, for that matter.”
Marci gaped at me in disgusted horror. The poor girl was terrified. I laughed, snorting and drawing attention to our table. We must have been quite a sight: two beautiful women, wearing gorgeous designer clothes and shoes, snorting, giggling, and talking about anal sex.
All of a sudden, Marci jumped from her seat and ran toward the front door of the restaurant. I turned in time to see her throw her arms around a handsome man of Middle-Eastern descent. I knew it had to be Astin. Lucky girl. He was gorgeous. It was no wonder she and I got along so well all these years—we both had a thing for exotic men. And who could blame us? It was like having a choice between plain vanilla and rich, dark chocolate.
Leading him to our table, Marci introduced us, keeping her arm wrapped possessively around his the entire time. “Winifred Chapman, meet Astin Yadin.” I nodded and smiled. He had such an American and modern given name, I was surprised by his very Israeli last name. As if reading my thoughts, Marci added, “Astin’s first name is actually Shlomo.”
I watched as he cringed and chuckled, and I had to bite my lip from laughing out loud. “No one except my parents call me that,” he informed me with a teasing glare. No wonder Mars had fallen for this guy—he was smoking hot. That accent was perfect.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Astin, and congratulations on your engagement. Marci is quite a girl,” I said with a smile as they slid into the booth across from me. “Will you be joining our shopping extravaganza today?”
His expression gave away his surprise by my question. “I’d hate to intrude on your girl-time.”
With a wave of my hand, I brushed off his concern. “Come with us. We can always use a man to carry our shopping bags,” I said, reassuring him.
The mortification on his face, followed by Marci’s thrilled chuckle, was priceless.
“Marci! Winifred! Over here! Astin!” The paparazzi called to us, snapping dozens of pictures as we made our way down Rodeo. Why on earth they had nothing better to do than take pictures of a fashion designer and a professional socialite was beyond me. Didn’t they have to track the latest hookups and breakups in Hollywood? I wished they would have left us alone. The object of the game was to ignore them, and we’d been rather successful with our strategy until that point. I kept wishing for an actual famous person like Madonna or Jennifer Lawrence or Henry Fuck-Hot Cavill to pop out of one of the boutiques and take the focus off us. Alas, no one came to our rescue.
“Are you ready to head back to the Valley yet?” Marci asked as we neared an even larger group of photographers, huddled around Tiffany & Company, waiting for whoever was inside. I nodded in confirmation. We’d made an excessive amount of purchases, though it was not our most expensive trip to Rodeo by any means. A new, bright yellow Prada bag was slung over my shoulder. Honestly, I deserved a new fifty-three hundred dollar purse, and the couple thousands of dollars worth of lingerie I’d bought from the Agent Provocateur boutique, simply for being able to walk away from Tony last night. That had taken an epic amount of willpower on my part.
We were turning toward the parking garage when I heard the questions that the paps were shouting at the person they’d been waiting on. “How does it feel to be home in Los Angeles? You’ve been pretty low-key since the Yankees released you. Do you still play ball? Are you still dating Francesca Bellini? Were you
“We do have Walt, though. Kris wasn’t bad in bed,” I said, enlightening her. “I just should have been suspicious when he only ever wanted to fuck from behind . . . and anal, for that matter.”
Marci gaped at me in disgusted horror. The poor girl was terrified. I laughed, snorting and drawing attention to our table. We must have been quite a sight: two beautiful women, wearing gorgeous designer clothes and shoes, snorting, giggling, and talking about anal sex.
All of a sudden, Marci jumped from her seat and ran toward the front door of the restaurant. I turned in time to see her throw her arms around a handsome man of Middle-Eastern descent. I knew it had to be Astin. Lucky girl. He was gorgeous. It was no wonder she and I got along so well all these years—we both had a thing for exotic men. And who could blame us? It was like having a choice between plain vanilla and rich, dark chocolate.
Leading him to our table, Marci introduced us, keeping her arm wrapped possessively around his the entire time. “Winifred Chapman, meet Astin Yadin.” I nodded and smiled. He had such an American and modern given name, I was surprised by his very Israeli last name. As if reading my thoughts, Marci added, “Astin’s first name is actually Shlomo.”
I watched as he cringed and chuckled, and I had to bite my lip from laughing out loud. “No one except my parents call me that,” he informed me with a teasing glare. No wonder Mars had fallen for this guy—he was smoking hot. That accent was perfect.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Astin, and congratulations on your engagement. Marci is quite a girl,” I said with a smile as they slid into the booth across from me. “Will you be joining our shopping extravaganza today?”
His expression gave away his surprise by my question. “I’d hate to intrude on your girl-time.”
With a wave of my hand, I brushed off his concern. “Come with us. We can always use a man to carry our shopping bags,” I said, reassuring him.
The mortification on his face, followed by Marci’s thrilled chuckle, was priceless.
“Marci! Winifred! Over here! Astin!” The paparazzi called to us, snapping dozens of pictures as we made our way down Rodeo. Why on earth they had nothing better to do than take pictures of a fashion designer and a professional socialite was beyond me. Didn’t they have to track the latest hookups and breakups in Hollywood? I wished they would have left us alone. The object of the game was to ignore them, and we’d been rather successful with our strategy until that point. I kept wishing for an actual famous person like Madonna or Jennifer Lawrence or Henry Fuck-Hot Cavill to pop out of one of the boutiques and take the focus off us. Alas, no one came to our rescue.
“Are you ready to head back to the Valley yet?” Marci asked as we neared an even larger group of photographers, huddled around Tiffany & Company, waiting for whoever was inside. I nodded in confirmation. We’d made an excessive amount of purchases, though it was not our most expensive trip to Rodeo by any means. A new, bright yellow Prada bag was slung over my shoulder. Honestly, I deserved a new fifty-three hundred dollar purse, and the couple thousands of dollars worth of lingerie I’d bought from the Agent Provocateur boutique, simply for being able to walk away from Tony last night. That had taken an epic amount of willpower on my part.
We were turning toward the parking garage when I heard the questions that the paps were shouting at the person they’d been waiting on. “How does it feel to be home in Los Angeles? You’ve been pretty low-key since the Yankees released you. Do you still play ball? Are you still dating Francesca Bellini? Were you
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