She nodded again as she rose, taking her coffee. I went up with her, doing the same. We left our cars where they were and moved down the sidewalk heading out of Cherry Creek North toward the mall.

“You know, it would go a long way to smoothing things over with those three if you sent Roxie, Tod and Stevie to the mall to deal with your wardrobe emergency,” Indy noted.

I stopped dead on the sidewalk and turned to her.

She was so right. And I was a Rock Chick, which meant I was a shopper. But I had shit to deal with, and as much as it killed, the time suckage of buying new jeans and tees was suckage I didn’t need.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, grinning. “Maybe because you were worried about me, your apartment exploded and you got fired.”

I grinned back. “Oh yeah. That took some headspace.”

“I see that,” she replied as we made to turn back.

But as we did, my eyes caught on something through a shop window and I again stopped dead.

Then I stared.

Then I whispered, “Holy shit.”

“What?” Indy asked.

“Holy shit,” I repeated, not answering, still staring, and also not believing my eyes.

“What?” Indy also repeated, but I knew she saw it when she whispered, “Holy crap.” And a nanosecond later she shouted, “Holy crap!”

In unison, we ran to the door of the store and then we ran through the store to the display.

And without a window separating us making the sun play games with our eyesight, there they were proving we weren’t having a mutual solar hallucination.

Stacks of them in an upright display, at the top of which was a starburst sign that announced New Series by Local Author.

And under it were dozens of hot pink books that included the Denver skyline, a film strip filled with pictures, and the white title in (what I had to admit was) a kickass font:

Rock Chick.

Chapter Twelve

Did I Mention the Suits?

“Oh my God.”

“Holy crap.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Blooming heck. Did that really happen?”

“This pink color is the bomb.”

The Rock Chicks were reacting to the book.

We were at Fortnum’s and we were holding an impromptu Rock Chick Powwow that Indy had hysterically called to order while riding shotgun with me on our way to the store. She was too freaked to drive. And anyway, she had a strict rule against driving and dialing and she was doing a lot of that.

As usual, no one wasted time hauling ass to Fortnum’s.

Now there were stacks of pink books that we’d bought in Cherry Creek on the low table in the seating area in front of the big plate glass window where we were congregated.

The good news was, a published (maybe) fictionalized account of Indy and Lee’s courtship took precedence over anyone giving me shit for being secretive about my non-Rock Chick activities as well as not sharing details as I was carrying on a fuck buddies relationship with Ren Zano for a year.

The bad news was, a (maybe) fictionalized account of Indy and Lee’s courtship had been freaking published.

“Oh my God,” Tod chortled, and everyone looked to him to see his book open, his eyes to it, a huge smile on his face. “I remember that. That was hilarious!” He looked to the group. “And this is fab…you…las. I’m famous!”

“Tod, this is not fabulous,” Indy snapped.

“Yes it is,” Tod disagreed.

“It is not,” Indy retorted.

“You’re famous, too,” Tod pointed out. “Or, you’re already famous with those newspaper articles, but you’ll be more famous with this book.”

“I don’t want to be more famous,” Indy shot back.

 Tod stared at Indy like she’d just declared the sparkly fringed crochet dress Tina Turner wore for her 1971 Beat Club performance of “Proud Mary” was in bad taste.

Then he asked, his voice pitched high, “Why on earth not?”

Indy brandished a pink book at him and yelled, “Tod! They have the kitchen counter scene in this! I don’t need the world knowing about the kitchen counter scene.”

“What page is that?” Shirleen muttered to Sadie, frantically flipping through a book.

“I’m looking,” Sadie muttered back, doing the same.

“That scene was hot,” Tod said to Indy.

“That wasn’t a scene, Tod,” Indy returned. “That was my life!”

“I remember hearing that story,” Roxie whispered to Ava. “Tod’s right. It was hot.”

I looked to Roxie, my gut clenching, as Daisy asked, “Who’s this Kristen Ashley person?”

“My guess,” Tod took his attention off Indy and looked at Daisy, “it’s a made up name. Kudos to whoever picked that, great romance novelist name. But totally fake. No one’s named Kristen Ashley.”

“It’s not a strange name, Tod,” Stella pointed out.

“How many people with romance novelist’s names do you know?” Tod asked Stella.