But this is too sweet an opportunity to squander, so I draw a breath, put the nib of the pen on the paper, and begin to write.

My very dear Mr. Stark,

Before I met you, I never gave any thought to the sensual nature of an automobile. But now, once again, I am surrounded by soft leather, snug in the warm embrace of this graceful, powerful vehicle. It is heady stuff, and I—

I continue to write, pouring out my teasing phrases through the intimate flow of ink onto paper. As I watch my precise handwriting fill the page, I almost regret the tech revolution. How wonderful to have received a letter from a lover. To open it and see his heart on the page, his handwriting bold and strong. There’s an immediacy to texts and emails that can’t be denied, but the intimacy of a letter really can’t be replicated.

By the time Edward pulls up in front of the condo that I share with Jamie in Studio City, I have finished the note. I fold it neatly, slide it into the matching envelope I find in the folio pocket, seal it, and print my return address on the top left corner. I realize then that I don’t know the street address of Damien’s Malibu house. Odd, considering how much time I’ve been spending there. But it doesn’t matter. The letter will reach him just as easily at his office building, which is also where his downtown apartment is located. I print his name and address neatly across the center of the envelope:

Damien Stark, CEO     

Stark International      

Stark Tower, Penthouse

S. Grand Avenue        

Los Angeles, CA 90071

I can’t remember the street number for the tower, but under the circumstances I imagine that the post office can deal. I find a stamp in my wallet and affix it to the envelope. Then I slip out of the car and smile at Edward. “I need to shower and change and grab a few things. I might be a while.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he says, and as I head toward the stairs, he slips back behind the wheel.

I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about my plan. Edward undoubtedly has an audiobook, and it’s not as if he needs to go back to Malibu in order to drive Damien around. By the time he realizes that I have snuck down the back stairs to my own car, I imagine he’ll have gotten in quite a bit of quality time with whatever book he’s enjoying.

I slide the letter through the outgoing mail slot before I hurry up the stairs to the condo, calculating the time I have to shower and change and get to the office. Traffic was worse than Edward had expected—there was a wreck on the 405—and I am going to be more rushed than I’d intended. I know I could have simply worn one of the zillion outfits that Damien has stocked for me, but this new job is my territory. And silly or not, I want to wear my own clothes and drive my own car.

I expect to find the door unlocked, because Jamie never remembers to lock the damn thing, so I’m surprised to find both the dead bolt and the knob locked up tight.

I dig my keys out of my purse, then frown as I enter the dark apartment. She’s probably asleep, and I hope that she’s alone. She probably is. Though Jamie drags men home like stray cats, she routinely kicks them out once they’ve given her bedsprings a thorough shaking. It’s dangerous and I worry, because it’s almost become a game with her. Unlike the games I play with Damien, though, I don’t think there’s any sort of safeword for Jamie.

Her door is closed, and I consider passing by. But this is my first day at work, and I want to see my best friend.

I tap lightly on the door, then lean close to listen. I expect either a groan or a startled apology followed by a rush to the door and a hug for me on my first day. But there’s only silence.

“James?” I tap harder, but there’s still no answer. I take hold of the knob and turn, trying to both look and not look, just in case she finally let the guy she dragged home stay for the entire night.

But the room is both dark and empty. I tell myself not to worry. Jamie probably just had somewhere to be this morning. Or else she crashed somewhere after a night of partying. Except I don’t really believe either of those explanations. Jamie’s not an early riser, and she rarely stays overnight anywhere. She’s not the kind to crash on a couch—she likes the comforts of home too much.

I hope I’m overreacting, but I pull out my phone and tap out a text. Where r u? Do I need to send out a search party?

I wait, staring at the screen, but my phone stays silent.

Well, shit.

I call, but the phone rolls over to voice mail.

Now my stomach really is in knots. I can’t call the police—I may not watch much television, but I’ve watched enough to know that they won’t do a thing unless it’s been twenty-four hours. I almost dial Damien, but my finger hesitates over his name. There might be nothing that he can do, but if I’m worried, I’m almost positive that he’ll cut his meeting short and come to me no matter how much I protest. He may be firmly perched on a white steed in my mind, but I am most definitely not a damsel in distress, and really don’t want to be.

Fine. Okay. No problem. Jamie’s probably just in the shower, which is where I need to be. I’ll shower and change, and if she hasn’t called me back by the time I’m ready to head downtown, I’ll call and text her again. And if she still doesn’t answer, I’ll call Ollie. I don’t know what he could do, but as my other best friend, I’m allowed to call him in a crisis. And with Ollie, my odds of interrupting a billion-dollar summit are significantly lessened.

Most important though—and as much as I hate to admit it—there’s a possibility that they’re together. They slept together one time that I know of. And though Jamie swears it was a singular event—and though Ollie has assured me that he’s been otherwise faithful to his fiancée—I’m not certain that I really believe either one of them.

My doubts weigh on me, because Jamie and Ollie are my two best friends, and I don’t like the way their tryst has clouded up things among the three of us.

I’m frustrated as I head into my own bedroom and toss the phone onto my bed, barely missing Lady Meow-Meow, who has blended in so well with my white duvet I don’t see her. She lifts her head in sleepy protest, stares at me until I apologize, and then promptly goes back to sleep.

Apparently our cat doesn’t share my concern about Jamie’s whereabouts.

Partly because I’m running late, and partly because I don’t want to be away from the phone that long, I rush through my shower. I towel-dry my hair until it’s damp, then use some gel to twist a few curls into place. I’ve discovered that it’s much easier to take care of shoulder-length hair than the tresses that used to fall midway down my back. Not that I want to repeat my meltdown, but on this small point, I think it worked out okay.

I wrap a towel around me, then open the door to our tiny bathroom. A cloud of steam escapes ahead of me, and I follow it out, then jump about a foot when I hear the sharp crash of ceramic shattering against the tile kitchen floor.

For an instant, I’m terrified, imagining intruders and boogey-men and God knows what. But what would have been a scream breaks into a relieved burst of laughter when I hear Jamie’s voice cutting sharply through the apartment. “Oh, fuck a duck! Nikki! I just killed your favorite coffee mug!”