IN HER SWEATPANTS, flopped on the unmade bed piled high with blankets and pillows, she tried not to let Jared’s needling questions send her mind where she really didn’t want it to go.
But it was impossible for anything about Nick not of remind her of that cheerful blonde face and the page at Sullivan and Cromwell she wished she could un-see.
Aubrey Peterson. Summa c*m laude from Stanford. Top in her class at Harvard Law. Board of the blah blah blah.
She wondered how long they had been together and if they were even—God forbid—married. She knew she didn’t want to be with Nick, but the fact that this little sprite had usurped her place to become his above all still made her stomach knot.
She shouldn’t have had so much bourbon. Everything felt warm and spinning and numb. She closed her ey
