I glance at her and see that she’s frowning. I swallow, afraid that my fears show on my face. “What is it?”

“You’re really wearing a skirt? I thought you tech folks were all about the jeans and T-shirts with math equations.”

I scowl, because I happen to own several T-shirts with truly funny math jokes. “First day on the job, and I’m not doing the tech side, remember. I’m management. I want to look professional.”

I’ve zipped up the blue skirt, and now I slide my feet into my favorite pair of pumps, then slip on a white silk shell that I top with a darling jacket I found at one of the studio resale shops that Jamie took me to during our Nikki-just-arrived-in-LA shopping spree. It has a classical cut with a muted pattern in gray and blue. The clerk told us that it was worn by one of the characters on some television show I never watched, but that Jamie assured me was great fun.

“I want to hear more about this guy,” I tell her as I move back into the bathroom to fly through my makeup routine. “But I have to get going.” She follows me and leans against the door as I finish up by carefully lining my eyes and brushing mascara on my lashes. When I’m done, I do a little spin in the tiny area between the tub and the sink. “Do I look okay?”

“When don’t you?” she asks. “And if anyone asks, Lauren Graham wore that jacket on Gilmore Girls. Trust me, it’s cool.”

I nod, taking her word for it.

“Want to meet after work? I’ll tell you about Raine and you can tell me all about your nights away from home, too. I want to hear everything.”

“Sounds good,” I say, not bothering to tell her that where Damien is concerned, there is no way that I’m going to be revealing “everything.” “Du-par’s?” I ask.

“Are you shitting me? I want a drink. Meet me at Firefly,” she says, referring to a local bar on Ventura Boulevard that we went to my first night in town.

“I’ll text you as I’m leaving work,” I say, then pull her into a hug. “I’m really glad about this guy. I can’t wait to hear more.”

“I can’t wait to see more,” she says with a wicked grin. “Trust me, I could look at that man all day.”

I leave Jamie sighing and probably replaying last night’s coital gymnastics in her mind, then hurry down the back stairs to the parking area. As I pull out, I see the limo in my rearview mirror. I keep an eye on it until I turn, but it doesn’t move from the spot, and as I turn onto Ventura Boulevard, I can’t help but smile. After all, it’s not every day I manage to outmaneuver Damien Stark.

Despite the fact that my ancient Honda has very little spunk and has lately taken to stalling out at stoplights, I manage to get from Studio City to the Innovative Resources office in Burbank in less than fifteen minutes, completely stall-free. I consider this a stellar beginning to the day. I park next to a red Mini Cooper that I eye jealously, then lock my car and head toward the ugly four-story stucco building that houses the Innovative offices along with a few subtenants.

My phone beeps and I pause in the middle of the parking lot to pull it out of my purse, then smile when I see it’s from Damien.

Thinking of you. Be good on your first day. Get along with the other kids. But don’t share your candy.

I laugh and tap out a reply. I only share my candy w/ u.

His reply makes me smile. Very glad to hear it.

I answer quickly. Heading into building now. Wish me luck.

His response is just as quick. Luck, though you don’t need it. Meeting reconvening, must go. Tonight, baby. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

I always do, I reply, then sigh happily as I slide my phone back into my purse, but not before noticing the time. It’s only 9:45, which means that I have fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to report for work.

My phone rings, and I pull it out. Damien again. “I’m imagining,” I say, keeping my tone sultry.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He doesn’t sound sultry at all. In fact, he sounds downright pissed. I grimace. Apparently, he’s just spoken to Edward.

“Going to work,” I say.

“I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now.”

“So why aren’t you?”

“Dammit, Nikki—”

“No,” I snap. “I’m the only one who gets to say that. Dammit, Damien, I am perfectly capable of driving myself. And if you want to hire out Edward then ask me. It’s easy. You walk up to me and say, ‘Nikki, darling, light of my life, can I have my driver take you to work?’ ”

There is a pause, and I hope that he is laughing. “And you would have said yes?”

“No,” I admit. “But that’s the way you should have handled it. It’s my job, Damien. I want to drive myself. I will drive myself.”

“I don’t want you around the paparazzi without someone there with you.”

Oh. I feel a little bit better. I don’t agree with what he did, but at least there was a reason for doing it. “Nobody’s here,” I say.

“But there could have been.”

“And I would have dealt with it,” I say, probably too sharply. I count to five. “You can’t be with me every second of every day. No matter how much I wish you could. I’m going to see them when I’m alone. It’s going to happen, and we both just have to deal with it.”

I hear him exhale. “I don’t like it.”

“Me, neither.”

“Dammit, Nikki.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

Finally Damien speaks. “I’m going to my meeting,” he says, but what he means is, I’m worried about you.

“I’m fine,” I say. “And, Damien?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Right emotion. Crappy execution.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” he says. “It is not an argument I can have from Palm Springs.”

I frown. Apparently it is an argument he can have in Los Angeles. Great.

He really does have to go to his meeting, so he ends the call, and I’m left scowling at my phone and the knowledge that I’m going to have to deal with not only the paparazzi, but with Damien trying to babysit me through my day.

I shove the problem out of my head and hurry into the building. I no longer have time to grab a coffee, but that’s okay because I don’t want to risk spilling it on my white blouse. As my mother’s voice in my head reminds me, there are better ways to make a first impression than coffee stains on your outfit.

The reception area is on the fourth floor, and I punch the elevator call button and wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive.

The doors finally slide open and I shift to one side to let the passengers get off. I’m about to step into the car when I hear a throaty, familiar voice behind me.

“Well, look at you, Texas. All dressed up with someplace to go.”

I turn and find myself facing Evelyn Dodge, a brassy broad if ever there was one, and one of my favorite people in the world. She’s wearing flowing black pants and gold sandals that look like something imported from Morocco. The pants are mostly obscured by a blustery multi-patterned shirt that, as far as I can tell, was created by stitching together dozens of Hermes scarves. She looks a bit like a gypsy with very expensive taste.