I was about to agree but then froze. “Wait. What do you mean she’s not here?”

Sal picked at a nail. “She left. Early this afternoon.”

“She left?” I sat up straight. Blood rushed in my ears, my heartbeat kicking into overdrive. “She left?”

“Repeating it won’t make it less true,” Sal pointed out helpfully.

“Sal.”

“What?” He batted his lashes at me, and I swore to God I was two seconds away from tossing him into the pool.

He must have seen this, because he let out an exaggerated sigh. “She went to LA for the weekend to look at houses. Said the sooner she found one, the sooner she could get out of Amalie’s hair.”

“Earlier skulking expeditions get you that info?” Brommy asked.

“No. Amalie told me. We tell each other everything.” Sal gave me a meaningful look.

I glared in return. But my heart wasn’t in it. No, my heart was trying its best to beat its way out of my damn chest or crawl up into my throat. It couldn’t seem to decide.

She wanted out of here. Because of me.

And why shouldn’t she, dipshit? You told her you weren’t interested in anything real.

“But it already is real.”

Brommy and Sal looked at me with worry.

“What is?” Sal asked.

I rubbed my face. “Nothing.” Wrenching out of my chair, I stood and rolled my neck, my mind racing ahead of the game, seeing the greater picture and all the play options. For once.

“Sal,” I said. “You’re going to put those sneaky skills to good use.”

He leaned back and gave me a cool look. “Oh, am I?”

He wasn’t fooling me. I knew the man, and he was all in.

“Yes. Pack a bag for LA. I’ll pay for your room.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Emma

“All the fixtures are custom made by local artisans,” Remington, my realtor, pointed out for the third time as we walked through the house.

I made an appropriate murmur, my heart not in it, and kept walking through the cold and lofty living room, my heels clicking hard on the poured-concrete floors.

“This place isn’t you,” Tate, my current real estate shopping buddy, said, not bothering to lower her voice. “It’s too cold.”

“Cold?” Remington’s blond brows winged upward in protest. “Look at this light! You have the canal right outside your door. Do you know how rare it is to find a good house on the canal?”

We were in Venice, searching for homes here because Remington told me it was the place to be in LA. Maybe it was. But I couldn’t get into the search. My head felt heavy, and my shoulders ached. I wanted a cool drink and a soft lounger to sprawl on.

And maybe indulge in a pretty little pastry that fills your mouth with its flavors and makes your heart flutter?

No. Not that.

Aggravated, I ran a hand through my hair, fingers dragging over my scalp in an attempt to work some blood back into my head. “Tate’s right. This isn’t me. But I’m beat. Let’s call it a day.”

Remington was not happy and shot daggers at Tate when he thought I wasn’t looking. But Tate could take care of herself. She blew him a lazy kiss, and I bit back a laugh.

Tate was my oldest friend in Hollywood. We’d met as fresh-faced newbies at an audition for a cereal commercial. I’d been rejected because I was “too California blonde” despite being born and raised in Fairfax, Virginia, and too short, despite being one of the tallest actresses in the bunch. And my smile apparently looked like an invitation for sex. Tate had laughed her ass off about that. Until they’d told her she was too busty but asked if she’d consider dying her raven-black hair blonde.

We’d gone to lunch to complain and agreed that casting directors were the most nitpicky, clueless jackholes in the business. They weren’t really; we’d eventually learn there were much worse players in this strange, messed-up business. But our bond had formed.

Now, Tate hooked her arm through mine as we strolled back into the hotel and were enveloped in the lush-green, kitschy banana-leaf wallpaper.

“You’ll find something,” she said, giving me a squeeze of support as we found the path through the garden.

“I know. I’m just tired.” I unlocked the door to the extravagant bungalow I’d rented. I could have stayed in a simple room. I could have stayed with Tate. But I was licking my wounds by surrounding myself with a luxury that would have made young cash-poor me cringe in horror.

Tate dropped her purse on the side table, then flopped onto the couch with a sigh. “Hello, Marilyn,” she said to the black-and-white photo of Marilyn Monroe. “We’re home!”

I gave my own nod to Marilyn, then curled up on the other end of the couch.

“You want to call in for some cocktails?” Tate asked, eyeing me. “Or maybe go to the pool?”

No pools. I wasn’t sure when I’d willingly go around one again, but not today.