Marrying My Billionaire Hookup - Nadia Lee Page 0,14
I didn’t realize the extent of the problems a poorly done custody agreement can create. Or not having one at all. The kids always end up getting used as pawns. Seriously, if you’re going to divorce, you have to do it right to avoid a real mess. And the cost!” His eyes defocus for a moment. “Samantha deserves a Nobel Prize.”
I almost choke on my taco. “A what? In what?”
“Peace, of course.” He looks slightly offended.
“Divorce profiteering deserves a Nobel Peace Prize?”
“She’s saving people’s lives. Your friend Kim would’ve been SOL without Samantha.”
Okay, I have to admit that part is true. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to join Hugo’s cult of Samantha worship. I make a neutral noise in my throat.
“Don’t you agree?” Hugo asks. You’d think I was a witness being cross-examined.
Thankfully, my phone rings. I reach for it, placing a finger to my lips. The ID shows it’s one of my clients, Sonia Rosenstein. Her dream is to find success as a model or an actress. Until then, her mega-rich hedge-fund-manager daddy finances her lavish lifestyle in Los Angeles.
“Hello, Sonia. What can I do for you?” I say in my most professional voice.
“Oh my God, Josephine!” she sobs. “You have to save me!”
Oh dear. It’s the same thing she told me, in this exact same tone, when she broke a nail an hour before a Hollywood party. I gird my loins. “What’s wrong?”
“You remember the gala I have tonight?” She’s hyperventilating. “The dress I was going to wear is ruined!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. We spent three interminable hours picking it out. “How?”
“Poochie knocked red wine over it.”
Shit. Poochie is her toy poodle, a dog as neurotic and crazy as its owner. “Don’t you have something similar in your closet?” I ask, mentally flipping through what I bought her in the last few months. “You should have at least four ivory dresses.”
Sonia loves white and cream. Says they make her look ethereal and angelic. Which is true…as long as she keeps her mouth shut.
“I can’t wear any of those! People have already seen me in them!” She’s wailing louder, like being seen in the same dress twice is the worst thing that could happen to her. Well, it probably is, in her myopic world.
“Okay. Give me two hours, and I’ll be at your place.” That should give me just enough time to make myself presentable and drive over. Asking her to wait any longer than a couple of hours is not a possibility because she has the patience of a three-year-old who skipped her nap.
“Actually, no. Meet me at my favorite Starbucks. I need some coffee to soothe my nerves.”
Somebody should point out that drinking caffeine might not be the most soothing thing for nerves. But whatever. Not my job.
I hang up and jump to my feet. “I gotta get ready to go out,” I say to Hugo.
“What’s going on?”
“Client emergency. She can’t be seen in the same dress twice.”
He laughs. “Seriously?” Then he looks at the racks of dresses I have. “Why don’t you give her one of those?”
“Because…” I give him a cool, pointed look. “They’re mine, and her breasts are, uh, highly augmented. They won’t fit.”
“Huh. Okay, well, you want some help?” he says, eyeing the curlers in my hair and my yoga pants.
“Yes,” I reply as I run toward my bedroom. “Can you grab me my concealer and lipstick? They’re in my purse.”
“Got it!” he calls after me.
Unlike most guys, Hugo knows what they are, having spent a lot of time with me while we were growing up. He often came by to get help with the English assignments my dad, who is a high school English teacher, gave him. Afterward, he’d hang out and see me play with makeup. In retrospect, he’s actually been a pretty accommodating cousin. None of my brothers wanted to be near me when I did girly stuff.
I pull out all the curlers and finger-comb my hair. It looks good enough, bouncy and full around my head. After swiping my face with rosewater toner to get rid of excess oil, I apply some fast makeup.
Hugo comes over and places the concealer and lipstick on my vanity.
I flash him a smile. “Thanks.”
He says, “You’re welcome,” but seems distracted, kind of staring at the vanity. Maybe it’s my brushes. I bought seven more last time I went shopping. Maybe he’s wondering if he should get some for Samantha. A woman can never have enough makeup brushes.