By the time we land in Crete, Richards is back from Spinalonga and throwing a party in his presidential suite. Earlier, he tweeted that he was in town, and a bunch of starfuckers brought down the hotel’s glass doors, leaving them shattered on the lobby floor. Then Richards sent some of his staff out to pick up the hottest groupies and invite them up to his suite, making them dispose of their phones at the entrance.

Rory and I walk in on him getting a blow job from a lass while fingering her friend’s arse. Which, naturally, makes Rory roll her eyes and squeeze hand sanitizer into her palm, passing it over to me. I shake my head.

“Not gonna wash my hands until the next time they’re on you.”

“You mean, never?” she asks dryly.

I give her a little smile. Sometimes we say things because they sound right. That’s what she’s doing right now. I think we both know there will be a second time, and soon.

She shivers, and not from the cold, because she hasn’t been particularly cold since she came to Ireland—something I hope she notices. Knowing full well that Richards’ cooperation is what my entire Rory Project depends on, I saunter in, grip the jerk’s shoulder, and yank him from his blow job. The girl is still bobbing her head with an O-shaped mouth when I shove Richards onto the plush leather sofa by the wall, crowding him with my arms crossed over my chest.

“Party’s over. We’re getting back to work.” I kick the sole of his sliders.

He mimics my movements, knotting his arms together, pouting. “Ever been to Thailand, Mal?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Well, I just came back, and let me tell you, it’s a magical place. I had a lot of time to think about shit.”

He was in Thailand exactly twenty minutes, during which he rode an elephant, made an embarrassing video, and decided to visit Greece on a whim.

“I broke up with my girlfriend—who is a duchess, by the way—and now I’m all about finding the one.”

“Do you think you’re going to find her in a stranger’s asshole?” I ask evenly.

Rory nearly coughs out a lung behind me, a combination of laughter and horror.

“Look,” Richards rolls his pretty-boy, bluest-blue eyes, “you got this writing-songs part under control. You told me yourself that the songs are all done and read—”

This time I cut him off by kicking him in the shin before he’s able to do some serious damage. He shuts up.

“Your boss paid you extra to do this documentary project,” I remind him. “He paid me. He paid Rory. You’re screwing up her work, too. You can burn through money and blow and women all you want after we’re done with this. You have all the time in the world.”