"Hadley..." Glen extended his hand across the table.

A wave of nausea-inducing bumps rolled over my hand and up my arm like they were about to miss the last train out of Hell. I drew away and folded my arms across my chest.

I stared at Glen and noticed the glint of a tear in his sea foam green eyes. I almost bought it. The crocodile tears, the fake remorse over our failed marriage. Oh, he was good alright. There had been something about Glen from the moment I'd met him. You could hate him, and an instant later, you were pulled in, anxious for his attention, hanging on his every word. I dropped my hand back onto the table.

He smiled like a little boy who had just thrown a temper tantrum for candy at the market and his mommy had given in. That's when I remembered why I was divorcing him. Well, aside from the women--as if that wasn't reason enough--he was, and always would be, full of shit. I was three years past putting up with all his malarkey.

I should have recognized the warning signs on our first date. We'd gone to lunch at a cozy little coffee house, walked through the park, stopped just long enough to feed the ducks, and even made a quick visit to the nursing home. We sat with his pink-haired grandma for two hours. He told me he spent time with her every Friday. Later, I found out the Friday visits were complete crap. We'd been married three weeks when he stopped visiting his grandmother altogether. But, all the while, I'd been eating it up, thinking what a sweet guy he was ... pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on our waitress' sleek legs, the way his grandma seemed not to recognize him. Back then, I'd had an excuse for everything.

Not anymore.

I moved my hand onto the small stack of bound papers. I pointed to the X by the line he should've been signing.

"Please, Hadley. You don't want this anymore than I do." Glen tapped the princess-cut stone in the center of my wedding band. "You're still wearing your ring. Don't you think that's a sign you're not ready to let go?"

"Maybe it just means it looks good on me, and since I paid for it, I guess I'll keep wearing it as long as I want."

"Whatever gets you through the night, baby." He sat there with that smug, self-satisfied look plastered on his face. He combed his hand through his perfectly mussed, sandy-blonde hair. His tanned, muscled arm peeked out from the sleeve of his suit coat. For a moment, I considered keeping him. Merely as a pet, of course. I mean, it really seemed a shame to let such a delicious man just sign a dotted line and traipse away.

In that instant, a curvy secretary in a pale yellow sundress walked in the office. She strutted over to my lawyer, Drake Valenti, and bent to whisper something in his ear, her cleavage surging out of her top. Glen--that sorry son of a bitch--may as well have walked straight over and introduced himself to her boobs.

I straightened my leg and drove my stiletto into his shin.

"Dammit!" He glared at me and leaned over, rubbing his leg under the table.

Drake stood up. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

As soon as he and his Vanna White assistant were out of the room, Glen asked, "Was that really necessary?"

I nodded. "Just sign the papers and then you can go dive into the depths of all that cleavage."

He snatched my hand into his. "Come on, a boy can have a little look now and again."

"Yes a boy certainly can."