More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) by Ann Royal Nicholas

in any way they could.
    By this point in the evening, however, we all needed to get going, so a Muff sub-committee agreed to meet me the following night to help hammer out a game plan.
    “Who’s next?” Lauren asked, as we began packing up to go. “I feel a little lost without Paige here to guide us. I’ll go see her this week and see how she is.”
    “Hold on.” Rachel reached for her laptop. “I think I have her list.”
    “It’s gotta be my turn,” said Vicki.
    “I haven’t hosted in years ,” Jelicka chimed in.
    “Me neither,” Lauren said. “I haven’t hosted since Max Tivoli .”
    “Well, you’re all wrong.” Rachel slapped the laptop closed. “It’s Quinn. Any ideas for a book?”
    At that moment, I didn’t have a clue what to choose. Of all the Muffs, I think I stress out the most about choosing what we read because I’m the most fearful of picking something people won’t like. There’s just not enough time in a life to spend it reading bad books—which, in the Muffs’ case hardly matters since, even with great books, they rarely read them.
    “Is it too much for you right now?” Sarah said, sensitive to my situation. “Somebody else could go, and we can come back to you.”
    I looked at their expectant faces. With everything I had going on, it was understandable they’d be concerned there might be one too many things on my plate. But I felt happy to have positive distractions. “I’m good. Just give me a couple days.”

CHAPTER 8
    Early the next evening, Madelyn, Jelicka, and Lauren met me for an emergency strategy session at Firefly, the popular Studio City bar/restaurant with the close-cropped-vine-covered exterior, which gives the place the appearance of a giant chia pet.
    The three of them sat opposite me, each holding one of Chef Jason Travi’s themed cocktails, speechless after listening to my woeful tale, which I’d fleshed out from the “highlight reel” version of the night before.
    “I’ve been thinking about changing careers anyway,” I said, hoping to wipe the shock off their faces. Leaning back in the plush, velvet-upholstered banquette, I picked up my drink. “This just forces my hand.”
    The alcohol soothed away the stress as it went down—granted, not the healthiest way to unwind, but it’s all I had at that moment since swearing off sex with married Steven. It was true—I had been thinking about changing jobs; for years, if I was honest with myself. But until I said it out loud, my idle musings hadn’t gained any traction. Now that my departure from Talent Partners might be imminent, I needed feedback about what I could do to fight the threat, but also to prepare for what might happen if I lost the battle.
    “What would you do?” Jelicka said, aghast. “It’s not as if jobs like yours are easy to come by. Then again, I’ve been out of the labor force so long, I’m not qualified to do anything.” She took a long pull from her bourbon-infused Orange Bomb with egg white foam while gazing longingly at the attractive twenty-something bartender. “Except Cougardom.”
    Lauren’s gaze drifted over to the bartender. “Oh, my ; he is hot!”
    “Being a cougar doesn’t pay,” said Maddie, who was behaving like she had additional information. “I know because I mediated a case, that’s all. Disappointed cats all ’round.”
    “But sometimes those little cubs are sooooo much fun.” Jelicka smiled wickedly.
    “So you told us,” Maddie said. “In great detail. You also said you were tired of it.”
    “Just a little.” Jelicka smiled.
    Lauren gestured to the cute bartender. “Did you...?”
    “Not that cub there, no; but I have indeed,” said Jelicka. “And they’re well worth the price of dinner.”
    Clearly, being a cougar was not a sustainable pastime, but Jelicka’s previous career as a sometime screenwriter had arguably never been a real job, either. Selling scripts in Hollywood— no matter how good they are—has always been a