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three short months since it had first aired,
“Fitz and Giggles” had rocketed to the top of the morning radio show charts.
Men openly embraced the Fitz ethos of “Every man is an island with at least one
hula girl.” Women tuned in just to see how the shock jock would offend them
next. Like sucking the filling out of the occasional Twinkie and perusing People magazine, the show was a guilty pleasure Sabrina was loath to claim. She turned
the volume up.
    “ Frustrating  — lemme underscore that — sums
up my weekend, dude,” Fitz grumbled.
    “What happened, dude? You didn’t get laid?” Giggles queried
with his trademark chortle.
    “Thought it was in the bag, man. I was in a wedding. You
know what you find at weddings, doncha?”
    “Hawt chicks.”
    “And none of them compliant.”
    “Wait a minute, man. You went to a wedding and didn’t get
laid?”
    “It is curious, isn’t it? Public displays of matrimony —
well, the post-cake and toast bullshit — were expressly created so members
of the wedding party can get drunk and hook up,” the alpha jock waxed
philosophical. “I did not hook up in the most, ah, corporeal sense of the word.
But I made an honest effort.”
    Sabrina reached for her latte. So she’d been spot-on about
men who went to weddings with the sole intention of poaching the available
women. Why was she not surprised?
    “—I’m talking about the Maid. Of. Honor, Gideon, my friend,”
he said thickly.
    “Whoa! You almost reeled in the big fish?”
    “Took me right back to the days of Boone’s Farm and
dry-humping Lacey Adams in the back of my big sister’s ’82 Impala. Only this
woman was — whoa, dude. Whoa .”
    A brief chorus of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me”
interrupted Fitz’s reminiscences.
    Sabrina groaned. It never ceased to amaze her that in an
enlightened era of gender equality in the workplace, throwbacks like these were
given a public platform for airing their misogynistic grievances.
    “So the chick was hawt ?” Giggles goaded.
    “Supremely so. Tiny little thing, all cow eyes and lashes.
Sexy-as-hell voice. Husky, like she just woke up. We mugged, but no offer was
forthcoming. Not that I ever had a prayer. She’s chief food taster and wine
bearer for a state representative … whassis name, Mr. ‘Go, Go Green—’?”
    It took only a split-nanosecond for Sabrina’s ears to
register the now-familiar timbre of his radio voice. The wheels of the Audi
squealed to a stop as her foot hit the brakes reflexively. Fitz. Fitzgerald .
    Gage.
    “Oh, hell!” The coffee that hadn’t seeped into her linen
skirt was splattered over the car’s cream-colored leather interior. Adding
injury to insult, the Audi lurched forward suddenly, another victim of Austin’s
many arm’s-width-distance tailgaters. Sabrina pulled down the visor to procure
her proof of insurance and heard a scraping sound as the car behind her backed
away.
    “Seriously?” she wailed as the other vehicle navigated its
way around the Audi and quickly scooted away. Tears of frustration sprang to
her eyes.
    “—goes to show you that when it comes to Type-A career
women, the cuffs aren’t always as stiff as the collar,” Gage concluded happily.
    Sabrina dropped her head to the steering wheel in
supplication at the bawls of laughter that erupted over the airwaves. Summoning
up her bluest language, she beat her temples against the wheel softly,
half-aware of the curious stares coming from the drivers in slow-passing
vehicles beside her.
    She whipped her car into the moving lane, cutting off a
Prius filled with nerdy Silicon Corridor carpoolers. Her knuckles whitened as
she gripped the wheel tightly. Gage Fitzgerald had let her believe he was in
Austin for the weekend. She didn’t need to wonder why. First base? Right. He thought he could hit it out of the ballpark. As long as she didn’t know shit
from shinola, he could bed her and bolt the next morning without leaving a
phone