“Are you?”

“Fuck no,” she says, with a sound that is somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. “But my old firm’s been doing the full-court press, trying to get me back behind a phone and a desk. And you know what? Who knows. Maybe if they sweeten the pot enough I’ll reconsider. Right now I’m just amusing myself watching them run around talking up potential projects. Like yours,” she adds with a wicked grin.

“Mine? My what?”

“Take your pick, Texas. There are producers salivating to get you on reality TV. And there are at least half a dozen companies looking to hire you to do product endorsements. Want to be the face of a makeup line? I could arrange it like that,” she says with a saucy snap of her fingers.

I just shake my head. “This is the weirdest city.”

Evelyn snorts. “Hell, yes it is.”

“If they’re just looking for a face, tell them to look at Jamie’s. I look better in real life than I do on film, but Jamie was made for the camera.”

“Good point there, Texas.” I’m joking, but I’m not entirely sure Evelyn realizes that.

I’m still buzzing from sugar and conversation when Evelyn heads back to Malibu and I return to my office. I study the portfolio of Blaine’s work that she left with me and make a few notes for the app she wants me to design. I want it to stand out—to have more functionality than simply as a portable display case—and I am so engrossed in brainstorming that I don’t realize the time until the intercom buzzes and the receptionist tells me that a Ms. Reynard is in the lobby.

“Oh, right. Send her on back.” I remain seated when she comes in—I’m the boss, after all—and greet her with my Professional Nikki smile. Another perk of my horrific childhood—I am well-versed at hiding my emotions under a variety of tried and true pageant-quality smiles. So I am confident that Giselle has no idea that I’m still wary—or that tiny seeds of jealousy remain buried just below the surface, ready to sprout if she says the wrong thing or looks at Damien with the slightest hint of attraction.

The truth is, I don’t want to be wary or jealous. I don’t like that girl, and I don’t want to be that girl. But I can’t flush from my mind the simple truth that she did date Damien—and that where Damien is concerned, “date” most likely means “screwed.”

“Nikki!” she chirps as she comes through my door, and I have to force myself to up the wattage on my smile. Giselle reminds me of Audrey Hepburn—her hair, her frame, her poise. I do not usually get intimidated around other women, but around Giselle, I feel off my game, and I can’t help but think that this is a huge mistake.

If she notices my hesitation, she’s kind enough not to say anything. Instead, she focuses on the space, her eyes roving over the empty walls and the furniture before landing back on me. “It’s a great space,” she says. “Small, but airy and well laid out. This beige on the walls is hideous, so that’s the first thing we’ll want to change. Then we’ll want to hang some art. Not too much. Probably one large piece to anchor the room, and then a few smaller pieces to provide some balance. I have some artists in mind—I’ll bring a portfolio by the next time I come. And some paint chips, too. Something professional, but bright. Maybe a pale yellow,” she adds, almost to herself.

I glance around, trying to imagine the walls in yellow. I have to admit, it might look nice.

She seems to realize she’s gone into the zone, and aims a ten-thousand megawatt smile in my direction. “Thanks again for letting me do this.”

“Sure,” I say. “I have to be honest. The rent on this place isn’t bad, but it’s more than I planned to spend my first year out of the gate. I don’t know that I can justify a decorating expense, too.”

She drops gracefully into one of the molded plastic guest chairs. “No, no. You misunderstand me. This is my treat. Well, for the first year. Then if you want to keep the canvases, you can either buy them or we can discuss a lease. As for the painting, this place is a shoebox—no offense—and I’m sure I already have the perfect color in storage.”

I tilt my head, trying to process this. “Giselle, I know that you didn’t mean to upset me when you told Bruce about the portrait. If you owe me anything, it’s an apology, and you’ve already done that.” I don’t mention Damien or my little stabs of jealousy. Other than having a history with him, she’s done nothing to incite the little green monster.

“I appreciate that, I really do. But I want to do this. I know how much all the press bothered you, and I can’t help but think that maybe that’s my doing, too.”

I sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I obviously wasn’t thinking. What if Bruce said something? What if I told someone else and just don’t remember? What if someone overheard us talking?”

Her words echo my earlier thoughts. “Even if that’s what happened, it’s blown over. And, honestly, Giselle, I don’t want to stick my nose into your business, but can you really afford to work for free?”

For the first time her expression loses some of the long-lost-girlfriend cheerfulness, and I know that I have hit a nerve. What I’m not sure is if I’ve crossed a line. I’m about to apologize and tell her that it’s none of my business and if she wants to work for free, then more power to her, but she continues before I have the chance to speak.

“The truth is that I can’t afford to make ends meet with just the gallery. I know that Damien and Evelyn aren’t gossiping about me, but at the same time, people talk, so I’m sure you’ve heard that my divorce is not, well, pleasant.”

She pauses, and I smile and murmur the appropriate condolences.

“Be careful of men,” she says darkly. “Fuck them, but don’t trust them. Not any of them.” She looks hard at me. “That’s a lesson I should have learned before I married Bruce. It sure as hell applied to the men in my life back then. All of them,” she adds.

“I couldn’t live like that,” I say coldly. I’m not sure if she’s trying to be a bitch or do the girl-bonding thing, but I don’t care. I don’t want to think about the fact that she dated Damien, much less discuss it. And I sure as hell don’t want to hear about why I shouldn’t trust him.

She exhales and slouches a bit so that she no longer looks like one of LA’s beautiful people but like a harried commuter. “Sorry. I’m too bitter by half. The point is that I need to increase my cash flow, and so I’m ramping up my design work again. And I could use this—doing your office, I mean. I don’t want to be crude, but having Damien Stark’s girlfriend on my client list isn’t going to hurt my business.”