Pushing the hair away that threatens to strangle her, Sofia asks, “Did you name your daughter after Elvis?”

I grin, remembering. “We just liked the name—thought it was different, but pretty for a little girl.”

“Did you have a boy’s name picked out too?”

With a nod, I explain. “Henry, after Jenn’s granddad, or Jackson, after mine.”

She’s quiet a moment, shifting quickly and not holding back on the gas pedal. Then she asks, “Family’s important to you, isn’t it, Stanton?”

“Of course. When it comes down to it, family’s the only thing you can really count on. Don’t get me wrong—there’ve been days I wanted to bury my older brother alive. You’ll meet him, you’ll understand why. But . . . he’ll always be my brother.” I pause, then voice the thought that’s been tickling my brain since I opened that envelope. “That’s why I’m surprised about Jenny. She’s always been solid, you know? True north. I can’t believe she’s being so . . . fickle.”

Sofia’s voice is soft, but loud enough to make out above the wind. “Maybe she just really missed you.”

Before I reply, the speedometer catches my eye. “You better slow down, Soph.”

She brushes me off. “Don’t worry, Granny, it’s all under control.”

“The highway patrol might disagree with you, Speed Racer.”

No sooner have the words left my mouth than a siren screams from behind us, flashing lights on our tail.

Sighing but unworried, Sofia pulls over to the shoulder.

“I don’t want to say I told you so, but . . .” I let that hang while Sofia busies herself in the mirror—patting her hair, pulling her top down a bit, and pushing her tits together. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting us out of a ticket.” She pinches her cheeks and bites her lip, making them plumper, rosier.

I smirk. “You think it’s that easy?”

She bats her long-lashed eyes. “Please. Men are the simplest of all creatures. They’re mesmerized by the boobage ’cause they don’t have any. Turns their brains to mush. I’ll have us out of here in five minutes.”

My smirk spreads into a wide, smug grin when I catch sight of the officer of the law before Sofia does. Sofia turns to her left, eyes wide and innocent. “Is there a problem, Off— Oh. Damn.”

The policeman is actually a policewoman.

Step aside, boobage: this is a job for the Jury Charmer.

I lean across the seat, smiling seductively, my voice as smooth and persuasive as The King’s. “Good morning, Officer. What can I do for you?”

• • •

After a sincere apology and my promise to not let my overzealous companion anywhere near the wheel gets us out of the speeding ticket, we spend the next twelve hours making good time on the road. It’s after dark by the time we check into a Motel 6, dusty, dirty, hungry, and tired.

I have every reason to be presumptuous, so I get us one room with a nice king-size bed. Sofia heads straight for the shower, while I venture out to pick up a pizza, a six-pack for me, and a bottle of wine for her.

I walk into the room just as she’s coming out of the bathroom, running a brush through her long, wet hair, a silk dark green nightshirt clinging to her curves. Her face is free of makeup, giving her a more innocent, younger look than I’m used to seeing on her. Protective warmth unfurls low in my stomach.

She lights up when she spots the pizza. “God bless you!”

Three slices later, we sit at the cramped, round table. Nibbling a piece of crust, she asks, “So, what’s the plan? Who am I?”

I swallow a mouthful of beer. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . am I the new girlfriend? Your date for the wedding? Have you never seen My Best Friend’s Wedding?”

I scoff. “No, thankfully, I haven’t.”

“Should I be making Jenny jealous? A man is never as attractive as when he’s got his arm around another woman. Or I could flirt with her fiancé. Test his faithfulness. That would give you some serious ammo against him.”

I’m not sure what bothers me more—hearing a man referred to as Jenny’s fiancé, or the thought of Sofia flirting with him. “I don’t like head games. They’re too manipulative. Undignified, you know?”

Sofia shrugs. “If you want to win, sometimes you have to play dirty.”

I shake my head. “I prefer a different kind of dirty.” I drink my beer, then explain why the idea leaves such a bad taste in my mouth. “A few years ago, I was seeing a woman named Rebecca. We met at a conference.”

She chuckles. “Professional conferences are as fertile mating grounds as swinger parties.”

I laugh, agreeing with her. “I didn’t go into details with her about Jenny, but I made it clear we were strictly casual.”

“Of course you did.”

“Anyway, she said she was fine with that. We hooked up twice—and then she started pulling all kinds of sneaky shit. Dropping hints about other guys she was seeing, making plans with me, then breaking them—trying to play hard to get—while at the same time finding excuses to randomly drop by the apartment. She became clingy and her games were annoying. The whole thing just made her seem . . . pathetic. I ended it real quick.”

“Did it bother you that she disrupted the ‘strictly casual’ by falling for you, or that she tried to manipulate you into returning her feelings?” Sofia asks.