But no. I got soppy and weak! And now Jessica gets to torment the world for another day and once again I have to reformulate my plan. The absurdity of it affects me like a cheap amphetamine. I’m antsy and irritable and intensely disappointed in myself. I always thought my anger made me tough, mature, efficient . . . but being faced with so many of my own shortcomings brings out another side of me. I don’t feel like a woman who can plan a battle. I feel like a girl who wants to pound her fists against the wall and scream.

And to make matters worse, Travis is onto me and if I don’t figure out an alternative soon, I’ll have to sleep with him or give up on the whole thing.

Of course, he didn’t say I actually had to sleep with him. He just said I had to sleep with someone who isn’t Lander. Theoretically, if we could procure him, I could pass this loyalty check by going down on Ryan Gosling. But here’s another horrible truth: I don’t want to go down on Ryan Gosling. I don’t even want Ryan Gosling to go down on me!

And there are only two kinds of women who don’t want Ryan Gosling to go down on them: lesbians and women who are in love with somebody else.

As Jessica dry-heaves in the corner I squeeze my eyes closed, silently cursing her while simultaneously berating myself. How awful is it that deceiving and manipulating Lander makes me feel weak and uncertain, while holding him makes me feel confident and strong? How did this happen?

When we get to the hospital, Lander takes care of everything. He really didn’t need me at all, not even to fill out the paperwork, which he does swiftly and with little emotion.

“All right,” he says, turning to me when they have wheeled Jessica away and hooked her up with the appropriate IVs and whatnot. “Let’s go.”

“We’re not going to wait with her?” I ask with a sigh of relief.

“Good God, no.” He takes my arm and leads me toward the exit. “The woman is a walking, talking public service warning.”

I can’t help but laugh at that.

This man can always make me laugh.

We get in the limo and go back to his place, neither of us speaking. When we eventually get back to his penthouse we both walk, somewhat numbly, to the living room. I have my purse, my shopping bag, and the toiletries I used last night, but I don’t have clothes for work tomorrow, which means that if I stay here I’ll have to get up early and go back to my apartment . . . which is probably good. I have thousands of dollars sitting in there unattended.

“Would it be inappropriate to offer you a drink?” he asks doubtfully.