center?”
“It’s better,” Max declared, flashing Mel another brilliant smile and folding her hands on top of the files on her desk.
Well, what could be better than herding seniors with attitude on a part-time basis? “Okay …”
Frankie rolled her eyes while laughter slid from her lips. “Quit looking like we just invited you to join our coven. Sit down and at least listen. If you don’t like what you hear, then you can go home to Joe and be honest when you tell him you at least heard our shtick, okay?”
“But the catch is, you absolutely have to listen,” Jasmine added, uncrossing her graceful legs and straightening the multicolored scarf she had draped elegantly over her shoulder.
“What exactly am I listening to?”
“The speech I give all ex-trophy wives before I hook them up with potential employers,” Max said.
Mel’s spine stiffened. “I hate that label. Ex-trophy wife,” Mel muttered. It implied she’d married Stan for all the wrong reasons—like money reasons. Absolutely untrue.
Had she been blown away by his interest in her? Definitely. Had she fallen madly in love with her Svengali-like mentor? Unequivo-cally. Had she devoted her every waking moment to him? Yes. Had he asked her to? She couldn’t remember. It had just happened. Still, the term made her squirm in her chair.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Jasmine interjected with a drawl, pushing her long blond hair from her face. “But that’s what you are. A beautiful woman who married her much older, very rich husband at a tender age and got ditched when her goodies got stale. Own it.”
“I didn’t marry Stan for his money.” She said that a lot lately— in defensive mode. She’d said it to the seniors, the pet store manager, and the drive-thru cashier at Wendy’s when she was getting a chocolate Frosty with the change she’d found in her father’s couch cushions.
Jasmine waved a hand with perfectly polished nails in the air.
“Whatever. Most of us truly fell in love. Doesn’t change what society calls you. Though, now I’m an ex-trophy wife slash cougar. Again, own it.” Jasmine’s smile held no malice— she was simply a straight shooter. For someone who hadn’t been able to scream her rage at Stan while she hunted him down with her sledgehammer and night-vision goggles, Mel admired that trait.
Max waved a finger of admonishment at Jasmine, her hair catching the light from the window when she shook her head. “Easy on the newb until we break her in. Anyway, it’s like I said. I have a speech I give before I hook you up with a potential employer, and tag, you’re it.”
Mel was remiss in hearing the part about potential employers and instead focused on the speech. “The speech?”
“Yes. The one where I give you a packet with all sorts of information in it that you’ll make faces about behind my back before you consider pitching it in the garbage. The packet includes, among other things, a divorce journal— typical and cliché, but believe it or not, a way to really vent instead of letting things build up. It’s also the speech about not letting this disgusting piece of shit you were married to own the rest of your life by suppressing your reasons to live.”
Mel’s eyes widened at Max. Now, ex-husband bashing she could probably get on board with. Maybe these were the women to trust with the Hefty bags and bleach after she killed Stan in the most heinous manner she could concoct.
Max winked a lovely green, perfectly coal-lined eye in response.
“Yes. I called him a disgusting piece of shit. It’s unprofessional and only allowed once in the ‘speech’ conversation. After that, we go all adult on you and tell you not to hold grudges because they’re unhealthy.”
“I love the ‘piece of shit’ part of the speech,” Jasmine murmured her delight, her eyes twinkling.
“Nah, my favorite part’s the part where you find a way to beat down the piece of shit by being self-sufficient and
“It’s better,” Max declared, flashing Mel another brilliant smile and folding her hands on top of the files on her desk.
Well, what could be better than herding seniors with attitude on a part-time basis? “Okay …”
Frankie rolled her eyes while laughter slid from her lips. “Quit looking like we just invited you to join our coven. Sit down and at least listen. If you don’t like what you hear, then you can go home to Joe and be honest when you tell him you at least heard our shtick, okay?”
“But the catch is, you absolutely have to listen,” Jasmine added, uncrossing her graceful legs and straightening the multicolored scarf she had draped elegantly over her shoulder.
“What exactly am I listening to?”
“The speech I give all ex-trophy wives before I hook them up with potential employers,” Max said.
Mel’s spine stiffened. “I hate that label. Ex-trophy wife,” Mel muttered. It implied she’d married Stan for all the wrong reasons—like money reasons. Absolutely untrue.
Had she been blown away by his interest in her? Definitely. Had she fallen madly in love with her Svengali-like mentor? Unequivo-cally. Had she devoted her every waking moment to him? Yes. Had he asked her to? She couldn’t remember. It had just happened. Still, the term made her squirm in her chair.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Jasmine interjected with a drawl, pushing her long blond hair from her face. “But that’s what you are. A beautiful woman who married her much older, very rich husband at a tender age and got ditched when her goodies got stale. Own it.”
“I didn’t marry Stan for his money.” She said that a lot lately— in defensive mode. She’d said it to the seniors, the pet store manager, and the drive-thru cashier at Wendy’s when she was getting a chocolate Frosty with the change she’d found in her father’s couch cushions.
Jasmine waved a hand with perfectly polished nails in the air.
“Whatever. Most of us truly fell in love. Doesn’t change what society calls you. Though, now I’m an ex-trophy wife slash cougar. Again, own it.” Jasmine’s smile held no malice— she was simply a straight shooter. For someone who hadn’t been able to scream her rage at Stan while she hunted him down with her sledgehammer and night-vision goggles, Mel admired that trait.
Max waved a finger of admonishment at Jasmine, her hair catching the light from the window when she shook her head. “Easy on the newb until we break her in. Anyway, it’s like I said. I have a speech I give before I hook you up with a potential employer, and tag, you’re it.”
Mel was remiss in hearing the part about potential employers and instead focused on the speech. “The speech?”
“Yes. The one where I give you a packet with all sorts of information in it that you’ll make faces about behind my back before you consider pitching it in the garbage. The packet includes, among other things, a divorce journal— typical and cliché, but believe it or not, a way to really vent instead of letting things build up. It’s also the speech about not letting this disgusting piece of shit you were married to own the rest of your life by suppressing your reasons to live.”
Mel’s eyes widened at Max. Now, ex-husband bashing she could probably get on board with. Maybe these were the women to trust with the Hefty bags and bleach after she killed Stan in the most heinous manner she could concoct.
Max winked a lovely green, perfectly coal-lined eye in response.
“Yes. I called him a disgusting piece of shit. It’s unprofessional and only allowed once in the ‘speech’ conversation. After that, we go all adult on you and tell you not to hold grudges because they’re unhealthy.”
“I love the ‘piece of shit’ part of the speech,” Jasmine murmured her delight, her eyes twinkling.
“Nah, my favorite part’s the part where you find a way to beat down the piece of shit by being self-sufficient and
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