“They were right. You’re here.”

I decide that this is one of those times where it would behoove me to play dumb. “I’m sorry? Do I know you?”

Maren takes a step forward and gets a little too close for comfort, but I’m not about to step away. Women like her are the predators of the female gender, assessing potential prey for signs of weakness to determine who will be the easiest to attack. It’s a behavior I may as well have a master’s degree in after watching it so often around Ricky and his bandmates. When it comes to snagging rich and powerful men, women can be absolutely terrifying in their determination to win.

“Do you know me? Really, Whitney?” Her snide tone drips with condescension.

Instinct makes me straighten my shoulders and stand taller. I’m not the weak one here today, I remind myself. I’m confident and strong.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Ms. . . .”

“Higgins. Maren Higgins.”

I keep my politely confused expression in place as I shake my head. Ricky wasn’t the only good liar. I can pull it off when needed.

“I’m afraid I have no idea who you are. Which is strange . . . considering you seem to think you know exactly who I am. If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else I need to be, and you’re blocking the door.”

She stays put, her mouth twisting in a way that’s wildly unattractive. “You can pretend all you want, but we both know that you’re here trying to steal my boyfriend, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

“I think you’ve been misinformed, Ms. Higgins. I’m here because this town is my family’s home. In fact, since you know exactly who I am, you know Gable is named after us.”

“I don’t care who it’s named after. The Riscoffs own this town, and Lincoln Riscoff belongs to me. You need to back the hell off before I make you.”

I should have known politeness wouldn’t get me far with Maren, but at least I tried it. I really did. Now I’m done letting her sling threats at me without protecting myself. Women like Maren understand one language: bitch. And luckily, after ten years in LA married to a rock star, I’m fluent in the dialect of super-sweet bitch.

“Oh, you’re the fling.” I impress myself with how authentic my surprised tone comes out. “I did hear about you, actually. No one has ever called you a girlfriend, though. I was under the impression you had an on-again, off-again thing that has firmly been in the off position for a while.”

Her back goes poker straight. “I don’t know what he told you, but Lincoln and I are in a relationship.”

“To be totally honest with you, Maren, Lincoln never mentioned you. I heard the gossip around town. You know how this place is.”

She jabs her finger into my robe. “Listen up, bitch. He’s mine.”

This time I do step back, because I don’t want her touching me.