Sexy in Stilettos Read Free Page B

“You’re going to have to pick the lock if you want in,” she shouted, popping her head out from underneath the duvet.
    “You’re not really daring me, are you, Trudeaux?”
    For a moment, Jaya worried about her lock. Micha had all manner of skills and Jaya didn’t know if lock-picking was one of them. She eyed the door with dubious concern. Deadbolts couldn’t be picked, could they? “Go away. I’m not accepting visitors.”
    “You might be old money from New Orleans, but I don’t take orders from you. Now open the damn door.”
    “There’s no need to shout,” Ricca said in a hushed tone.
      “Thank you for coming, but I am not opening the door. I’m wallowing. Deep wallowing going on. No guests invited to this wallowing party.”
    Silence . Maybe they’d taken the hint. The sunlight streaming in from her balcony fought a valiant battle with her duvet cover, but her tugging and securing of the blanket around her won the fight in the blanket’s favor and no light streamed into her self-imposed cave. Nausea and dread threaded through her belly.
    This was all wrong. Every romantic comedy movie ever made had their heroines feeling better after gorging on ice-cream and shopping themselves stupid. Leave it to her to feel sick at the evidence of both her attempts. She couldn’t even look at the bag she’d left by her front door. Who the hell tried to soothe a bruised ego with three-thousand-dollar shoes?
    There was some shuffling at the door. Damn, those chicks are persistent . It was, of course, the reason they were friends in the first place. Never say die. And if you do say die, make sure it’s with fabulous footwear and you take a piece of someone with you.
    Her heart lurched into overdrive as the bolt disengaged. She yanked the covers off her head in time to see Micha saunter in with a triumphant grin, jangling a set of keys in her hand. “You know, you really should tell Marco and his fine ass not to give keys to any old bitch who smiles and flashes some tit at him. By the way, I still insist you need to do him before he heads back to Brazil this summer. That is too much hotness for one of us not to take a crack at.”
    The doorman had given them the key? Traitor . Micha was right—that Brazilian piece of hotness couldn’t help himself for a pretty smile.  But she wasn’t going to sleep with him. No matter how much he made her blush every time he said her name in his accented English.
    Ricca followed close behind Micha. Her smile, though, was laced with concern. It only got worse as she caught a load of the mess in Jaya’s living room.
    Micha took charge. “Ree, you get her brown booty into the shower. I’ll start cleaning up this dump.”
    Feeling mutinous, Jaya folded her limbs Indian style. “I don’t need a shower. Nor do I need you to come into my house and boss me around. What if I like my place looking like this?” She darted a glance around. Pigsty was a gross under-exaggeration. The old her didn’t handle mess well. The new-unemployed-loser her didn’t give a shit.
    Even Ricca had to snort. “Come on, honey. I’m surprised you’re not at the rug with a dust-buster already. Let’s go. I’ll wrap your hair up so you can get in the shower.”
    Jaya scowled. “Shit, do I smell that bad?”
    Micha nodded as Ricca shook her head, but only Micha spoke. “Did you know you have an ice-cream smear on one of your boobs?”
    Jaya’s head snapped down, then back up again to look at her friends. Goddamn . She was a mess.
    A look of mock alarm crossed over Micha’s face. “If you’re going to cry, take it outside. No pussies in my camp.”
    Jaya barked out a laugh. “Yeah, hard-ass. I get you.” Giving Ricca her best I’m-a-pathetic-chick-so-don’t-hold-it-against-me smile, she added. “Lead the way.”
    After she showered, she’d changed her ice-cream-stained sweatshirt for jeans and a graphic T-shirt that read “My balls are bigger than yours.” The way she figured, she could