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murmured.
    “Pickuppickuppickuppickup!”
    My befuddled eyes snapped open, and I heard my specially programmed ringtone clearly. I slammed my head back down on the pillow.
    “Fuck!”
    I glared at my phone, having a vibrating seizure on my nightstand. It had better be good. I looked down at my raging hard-on and groaned, then buried my head in the softness of my pillow. It had better be damn good. I waited silently for the message prompt, enjoying the warmth of the morning drawing sunlit lines on my back.
    God, why would I be dreaming about Jordan? He was off limits. Practically married. I pressed the unknown message and listened for a moment before groaning. Trevor.
    “I want to talk to you about Finnegan,” he said, enunciating his words precisely in a way that was now uniquely his. He hadn’t spoken that way when we’d first met. He’d drawled, slow and long vowels, and skipped some consonants altogether. I’d thought it ridiculously sexy. Soon he’d eradicated it to the point that it only appeared when he was angry. Or passionate. Even now, I could hear the way he put six extra a’s in baby when we were in bed. “As soon as you can, I want you to come over to my place.” He paused and then added, “Laura gets home at six thirty, so sometime before then.”
    I grimaced, sitting up and pushing off the bed with a groan. I stretched, wishing I hadn’t checked the message at all. I wanted to ignore him altogether, but he had my dog. He’d also taken off with the good television, the good linens, and most of the dishes. While I was fine eating Captain Crunch out of a jelly jar, he wasn’t going anywhere with my dog.
    I had walked Finn when he had to work late, trying to establish himself as a new associate instead of grunt number twelve at the law firm. I’d fed Finn, bought his food, taken him to the vet, and taught him the dumbest tricks known to man. There was a reason he barely responded to “sit,” “stay,” and “down.” I found it more to my liking to spoil him, and if you said “gimme sugar,” he was on you like white on rice.
    High on my soapbox, it took me a moment to hear my phone buzzing, even though it was in my hand. I checked the flat face and groaned. Drew. Work.
    “What’s up?”
    “I ought to ask you the same thing.” Drew’s voice was annoyance personified. “I rescheduled the meeting for this morning. Where the hell are you?”
    “I’m trying to remember the last call I got from you that didn’t begin that way.” I found the remote amongst the disarray of the covers and pointed it at the TV. I immediately pressed mute so Drew wouldn’t bitch.
    “I’m trying to remember the last time you bombed so many appointments.”
    I halted in front of my dresser and opened the box of Nicorette one-handed, tearing the box a bit in the process. With friends and family like this, I didn’t need cigarettes, I needed fucking cocaine.
    “Do you know where I can get some good blow?” I asked, only halfway kidding.
    “Mackenzie, will you get serious? Are you coming in to work or not?”
    I slapped the patch on my upper arm and lit up a cigarette at the same time. “I’m sorry, you bitch, didn’t you desert me yesterday?”
    “Didn’t I call your brother to give you a ride?”
    “Yet another offense I’ve yet to collect for.”
    “Will you put that fucking cigarette out?” Drew sounded exasperated.
    “I’m not smoking,” I lied.
    “I heard the lighter, you fruit.”
    Damn, but the surf forecast looked good. I turned the volume up a pinch, just enough to hear over Drew’s monotone report about our morning meetings. I rummaged through the nightstand drawer and unearthed my leg brace, which I only used when it got bad, and flopped back down on the bed when I found it. I eased it over my foot and up my leg as I listened to the report and not Drew.
    “More typical July conditions this week, with a nice southwest swell. Bad news is we may be expecting a low-grade storm in the