“I was thinking about a nap.” I kicked off my heels and wiggled my toes. When she didn’t say anything, I glanced up and found Tate watching me with a dark frown.

“You okay? Is it the show?”

Tate was the only friend I’d told about getting the ax. Well, aside from Amalie, Tina, and Lucian. I pushed his name from my mind. Or tried to.

“I’m okay,” I lied. “And it’s not the show. Well, not really. I’ve settled down about those worries.” Because a gruff and beautiful man held me in the dark and told me it was okay to mourn.

My chest tightened, and I turned away, staring blindly at Marilyn’s sultry expression. Someone once told me that to be a star is to shine alone in the night sky. Always admired, always alone. I’d laughed that off. Why couldn’t I have it all?

My vision blurred, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m just . . .”

A vibration at my feet cut me off as a text popped up on my phone. Given that I didn’t want to break down and cry on Tate’s shoulder, I pulled the phone from my purse.

Sal: I can’t believe you went to LA without me!!

Smiling, I shook my head and tapped out my reply.

Who is this and how did you get this number?

There was a slight pause.

Sal: Evil Emma! And to think, I was going 2 tell U about the vintage 50s Dior ball gown in ice blue silk that I found. In YUR size!

He sent along a picture of the dress, and I sucked in a breath. It was gorgeous.

“Holy shit,” exclaimed Tate, who was extremely nosy on the best of days and had leaned in to look over my shoulder. “Who is Sal, and if you don’t want that dress, tell him I do.”

I nudged her away with a laugh. “He’s Amalie’s assistant and dresser. He’s a sweetheart and an expert at all things fashion.” I’d told Tate all about staying with Amalie. I had not told her about Lucian. I couldn’t. Not yet.

Just the thought of him now made my smile fade. I missed him. Damn it, I wasn’t supposed to miss a man I hardly knew.

But I did know him. Not in length of time but in depth of character.

I shook it off and answered Sal.

Forgive me, Sal! Or I’ll never forgive myself! :)

Sal: You just want the dress.

Yes. But I assume you come w/the dress?

Sal: Is that innuendo, dear Emma?

I snorted.

Nice try, Sally.

Sal: :P I already bought the dress. It’s yours.

I luv U, Sal!!!

I glanced at Tate. “I’m getting the dress.”

“Bitch!” She pouted for a second, then poked me with her toe. “When do I get to meet him?”

Sal pinged another message before I could answer.

Sal: So, where are you staying? Please tell me it’s fabulous. Let me live vicariously thru U.

You’ll like this, then. Bungalow 1 at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Sal: THE MARILYN!?! Without ME???

I laughed and showed Tate the text.

“Oh, I like this guy,” she said.

“I do too.” I liked everyone at Rosemont. A pang of something that felt alarmingly like homesickness went through me. I pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. I couldn’t get attached.

Sal texted again.

Sal: Tell me you’re going out on the town and having fun!

Ah. No. I might drag my butt down to the lounge for dinner but that’s it.

Sal: Boooring!

That’s me. Napping now!

I wondered briefly if he’d tease me about that, but he didn’t.

Sal: Sleep well, fair Emma.

And it hurt. Because I wanted to hear those words from someone else. I wanted to talk to him. I just wanted . . . him.

“He’s right. You are boring.” Tate nudged me again with her toe, and I slapped it away. She made a noise of protest. “Let’s go out.”

“No.” I put down my phone. “I can’t. I . . .” My voice caught and died.

Tate’s gaze sharpened. “Something is going on with you. Tell me.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to deny it. But the words bubbled up without my permission. “Oh, where to begin?”

“At the beginning.”

“I think we’ll need drinks for that.”

She was already headed for the minibar. “On it.”

And so I spilled out my heart. But it didn’t make me feel any better.

Eventually, Tate dragged me down to the lounge and we ended up on the patio, tucked in a private corner half hidden by potted ficus trees.

Tate ordered us a tray of oysters and two strong gimlets.

“What, no fruity drinks?” I teased.

“This is a gin-and-bear-it kind of night,” Tate said with a straight face.

I made a fake gagging sound. “I hate your puns.”

“You love them.”

Our cocktails arrived. Tate shook her long hair back from her shoulders and took a dramatic breath. Surrounded by pink stucco and white wrought iron furniture, she looked a bit like a modern-day Rita Hayworth. “Here’s to good drinks and a man-free night.”