“I get that,” I say. “But I don’t think Damien’s security folks or the police have learned anything new.”

“Must be driving Damien nuts.”

“It is,” I say. “That and trying to find Sofia.”

“Who?”

I realize that I haven’t told Jamie about Sofia, so I give her the abridged version, mentioning only that she’s a friend of Damien’s from his tennis days, that she’s a little fucked up, and that she’s missing. Probably doing the roadie thing with some band, but until that’s confirmed, Damien’s worried.

“And you’re not jealous?” Jamie says.

I raise my brows. “Are you saying I should be?”

“Ex-girlfriend, and now he’s obsessed with finding her again? Shit, I’d be pulling my hair out.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly. “I appreciate the mental health pep talk.”

“Yeah, well, as we’ve established several times over, I’m not anywhere near as together as you.”

“I think you have me confused with someone who doesn’t cut,” I say.

The look she gives me is as serious as I’ve ever seen on Jamie. “I think you have you confused with someone who does.”

I stay still for a moment, not answering, but looking at myself through Jamie’s eyes. Have I really gotten my shit together? Maybe not entirely, but I’ve been doing pretty damn well. And I owe all that to Damien.

I think about the times when I’ve started to slide—the times when Damien has caught me—and I wish that Jamie could find someone, too. Someone who gets her and doesn’t put up with her shit. Someone who’s not just looking for a fuckbuddy or a one-night stand.

Someone who’ll love her.

“What?” she says, peering at me through narrowed eyes. I just shake my head.

She reaches out for the candy bar, and breaks off two squares. Then she uses the squares to sandwich a marshmallow. She doesn’t bother to melt it over the fire; she just bites in, her eyes closed in what looks like near-orgasmic joy. “Damn, but I do love chocolate.”

I stand up. “I’m going to bed before I eat any more of that. Do you want me to wake you in the morning? I’m getting up early to go to the office.” Those words are at least as delicious as the chocolate. I have an office. My very own office. Seriously, how cool is that?

“I’ll disown you if you wake me up,” she says. “Now go.” She waves her hand regally. “If I can’t have sex, I’m going to at least finish off the last of this chocolate.

I’m asleep by the time Damien comes to bed, and he’s gone again when I wake up. I have a vague memory of being wrapped in his warmth at one point during the night, but for the most part, I’m feeling bereft. At least until I find the note in the bathroom promising me something delicious that night—and maybe even dinner, too.

Cooper has magically appeared at the Malibu house, and I can only assume that one of Damien’s elves drove him there while Damien and I were at the hospital with Jamie. However it arrived, I’m grateful, and I slide happily behind the wheel and head out for the long trek to Sherman Oaks. I’m starving, and my usual traveler’s mug of coffee isn’t cutting it this morning. Damien once introduced me to the world’s best croissants from a local Malibu bakery, and since I can arrive at my own office at whatever the hell time I want to, I decide to make a detour.

The Upper Crust actually has a drive-through, but I decide to park and go inside. I think I want a plain croissant, but I’m more than willing to be tempted by something truly decadent like pain au chocolat or a sticky, gooey cinnamon roll that is positively dripping with icing. As it turns out, it’s the apple fritter that seduces me, and as I pay for it and an extra large latte, the little bell on the door jingles and Lisa walks in.

I lift my hand to wave, then immediately drop it. She’s hand in hand with a man I know—Preston Rhodes. The head of acquisitions at Stark Applied Technology.

For a second, I think this must be one of those Big, Amusing Coincidences. But then I see Preston’s smile of recognition—and Lisa’s grimace.

Well, fuck.

“Damien,” I say, my temper rising as each piece of the puzzle falls into place. “You didn’t talk to me that first day in Burbank because I was the new girl at Innovative,” I accuse. “You did it because Damien asked you to.” I’m proud of myself for keeping my voice level, but considering the way Preston looks between us and slinks away, I don’t think I’m quite as calm as I think I am.

“It wasn’t like that,” Lisa says.

I cock my head. “He didn’t ask you to reach out to me?”

“Well, yes,” she admits. “I guess it was like that.” Unlike mine, her voice really is calm. Perfectly level and perfectly reasonable. Which, naturally, pisses me off more.

I cross my arms over my chest and stare her down.

“He told me that you were considering going out on your own. That you already had some smart phone apps on the market that were doing well, and that you were working on developing some web-based apps that he thought would make a serious splash in the market.”

“And?”

“And he told me that you were unsure of yourself as a business owner.”

“So he figured if I wouldn’t listen to him, maybe I’d listen to you?” While I’ve sought out Damien’s advice on the financial end, I’ve hesitated to ask him to step in to help me with the business. At the same time, I’ve been reluctant to launch until I felt like I knew what I was doing. Lisa is the perfect bridge between my insecurities and my needs, once again proving how well Damien knows me—and that he is still keeping secrets and pulling strings.

I remember how he told me that he’d checked Lisa out. Damn the man! He didn’t have to check her out—he knew her. Hell, she’s engaged to one of his top employees.

“I’m so sorry,” Lisa says. “He asked me not to tell you, but the truth is I didn’t even think about it after that first time we met in Burbank.”

I exhale. “Honestly, it’s not you I’m annoyed with.”

She sighs, and the professional veneer slips. I see the core of the woman I’ve come to know—the woman I thought was becoming my friend. “Come on, Nikki, you know how he feels about you. He wasn’t trying to be underhanded—he only wanted to help you.”

“Help drive me crazy,” I say, and Lisa laughs.

“I really am sorry.” Her expression is genuinely contrite. “So are we still on for happy hour sometime?”

“Sure,” I say, because no matter how mad I might be at Damien—and right now, I am very mad—I’m not going to screw up this nascent friendship with Lisa. “Actually, I’m meeting some friends at Westerfield’s tomorrow. Why don’t you guys come, too?”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I say firmly.

“I’d like that,” Lisa says. “Text me the details?”

“Will do,” I promise.

“And don’t kick Damien too hard,” she adds. About that, though, I’m making no promises at all.