Here’s the thing about Asia Afrodesia: working on her Web site, I deal exclusively with her publicist, manager, or various lower minions communicating on her behalf. I’ve never met her in person, have never called or texted or even so much as e-mailed her.
That’s why, during this otherwise unspectacular Saturday evening late-night power hour, I’m so utterly and completely amazed to find her now standing at the foot of my bed. Not her manager, not her publicist or the aforementioned minions, but Asia herself. In a bathrobe and smelling of cocoa butter and weed and pregnant as can be.
In my bedroom.
I blink at her.
She blinks back, raises an eyebrow. “So…I’m looking for my webmaster. Theo Ivanovich.”
“I’m, um, he.” I pull the blanket up to my chin.
“Jesus, how old are you?”
Asia looks distantly concerned, but recovers quickly as she shrugs, starts to undo the front of her robe. “Whatever. Let’s do this.”