“Do you think my social media pages are shit?” I find myself asking as I sign whatever he hands me.

He pauses. “Hmmm . . . let me see . . . I do recall saying as much, oh, I don’t know, about fifty times over the past year.”

He delivers his sarcasm so sweetly.

My mouth twists. “I remember.” And I do. Faintly. Problem is, as PR is my least favorite part of the job, I tend to block a lot of things. Timothy knows it and makes it as pain-free as possible. Which is why he’s worth his weight in gold.

He helps himself to a glass of Delilah’s sweet tea and makes an appreciative noise.

“Careful.” I fight a smile. “That’s the real deal and probably about a thousand calories.”

I’m fairly certain Delilah keeps it on hand just to torture me. I snuck a glass yesterday and drank it down like a sailor who found a lost cask of rum. A lump swelled in my throat at that sweet taste of childhood. Specifically, my childhood at the Baker house.

Timothy hesitates, glass halfway to his mouth, then shrugs and takes another sip. “Fuck it. I’ll do extra cardio today.”

I sign a small poster of me dressed as Arasmus. “Some days, I really do miss living in the South, where I could drink my sweet tea in peace.”

“Take me with you,” Timothy says. “Because this stuff is divine. Where’d you get it?”

“Delilah makes it.”

“I like that girl.”

I sign a faux leather gauntlet, writing along the edge of it. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

“No need. She knows. And where is your superchef slash assistant today?” He glances around the kitchen as if she’ll suddenly pop up from behind the counter.

“In her room.” She hasn’t come out yet, even though it’s eleven. Nor did I get my morning smoothie. I’d give her shit, but I don’t really want to. Dealing with my father left us both bruised but brought us together in a way that was both unexpected yet inevitable. Nothing between us is how it should be. The problem is I don’t know how to make us right. Or even if there is an us.

Whatever the case, it’s not like her to hide out. I clench my pen and focus on the repetitive work of autographing.

Timothy sets his empty glass down. “So tell me, why the sudden interest in your social media?”

My shoulders stiffen. “No reason. Just thought I’d ask.”

“Right. I totally buy that. Completely.” He takes a seat on the banquette and drums his nails on the tabletop, watching me. “Delilah gave you shit, didn’t she?”

“Why do you think it was Delilah’s idea?”

“Because she’s smart and clearly not afraid of you.”

At that, I smile faintly, but it fades just as quickly. “She thinks it’s sad. A bad reflection on the real me.”

“It is.” Timothy pulls a small compact from his bag and checks out his reflection. With a frown, he starts to touch up his foundation with efficient pats. “But we’ll work on it.”

“Delilah said she’d help me.” I stop, cringing inwardly when one of Timothy’s perfectly groomed brows lifts.

He snaps his compact closed and tucks it away. “Since you’re open to touchy subjects today, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about how we’re handling these next few months.”

I sit back in my chair, flexing my stiff wrist. It’s mostly healed, but signing isn’t doing it any favors. “What do you mean, ‘handle’?”

“You were run off the road by a fanatic, Saint.”

“I am aware.”

“There’s speculation about whether you’re affected by this.”

My pulse thrums in my temple as I gesture to my body. “Obviously I’m affected. What did people expect?”

His gaze is placid in the face of my growing agitation. “I meant mentally.”

Of course he did. I glance away.

Timothy sighs. “How could you not be? It would have freaked me the fuck out. But you don’t want them to see that.” His voice takes on a note of unwelcome sympathy. “You need to get out there more often. Let them see you strong and unbroken.”

A harsh laugh breaks free. “I am not fucking broken, Tim.”

“Bad choice of words.” He reaches out as if to pat me, then obviously thinks better of that bad move. “Look, we got great feedback after the luncheon. People want to see you living your life. The industry wants to see you. So let them see you.”

“Fine, I’ll go out more,” I mutter.

He bites the corner of his lip, and I know I’m not going to be happy. “Thing is, Saint, it would look better if you were seen being happy.”

“Happy?” I run a hand over my hair. “Okay, I’ll bite. How exactly am I supposed to be happy?”

“I think you should go on a date.”

“A date.” Oh, fuck no.

He scoots forward. “Now, don’t give me that look. Let me explain first.”