“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the Palm Court does have a dress code, even for brunch.” The human hostess guarding the restaurant door eyed my ripped jeans and novelty T-shirt with trepidation bordering on fear.
I leaned one elbow on her polished podium and slipped easily into the most obnoxiously shrill East Village accent anyone in the hotel had probably ever heard. “Look, honey, I feel you, I do, but my client is brunching his dumb ass off while his wife is headed our way. If you don’t let me warn him, this scene’s gonna be a helluva lot uglier than me.”
“Your client?” The hostess smiled nervously. “You’re his divorce lawyer?”
I shook my head and lifted one eyebrow like, ‘Are you kidding me?’
She cleared her throat. “Right. Well, if you could just point him out…”
“Nah.” I twirled a strand
