And I really don’t want to think about the way I ran from Damien Stark.

What does he think about me now?

No. Not going there.

I get out of my car, lock it tight even though no one in this part of Los Angeles would be caught dead with my piece of shit vehicle, not even a criminal, and head into the mall, my thoughts on makeup and shoes and purses. Thoughts of Damien Stark are not allowed.

The escalator moves me up, up, up, like I’m rising out of a dark hell into the light of a shiny bright heaven. Beautiful people are everywhere, and we are alike in our plastic-ness. Me, the people, even the mannequins in the windows. We’re all hiding behind our masks, strutting our stuff, pretending to be perfectly perfect.

Beautiful clothes call to me like sirens from window displays, and I dip in and out of the stores like flotsam moving with the tide. I pull things off racks. I try them on. I twist and turn in front of three-way mirrors and smile politely when the sales-clerks tell me how darling an outfit is. How it makes my legs look so, so sexy. How I’ll turn heads everywhere I go.

I put them all back.

In Macy’s, I find a display of colored T-shirts, along with some cotton drawstring pants in a blue and white pinstripe material. I buy the pants and two T-shirts, also blue and white. I carry my little bag to the Starbucks and order a coffee loaded up with cream and a blueberry muffin. Comfort clothes, comfort food.

I sit by the window and watch the world go by. Once again, I’m caught without my camera, and I wish I had it. It’s been like a security blanket since Ashley gave it to me for Christmas during my freshman year of high school. I’d like to capture some of these passing faces. They are mysteries, all of them. I watch them and try to guess their secrets, but it’s impossible. I have no clue. She might be having an affair. He might beat his wife. The clean-cut teen might have shoplifted a pair of lacy underwear. There’s no way for me to know, and that hollow, empty question mark lifts my spirits. If I can’t look at them and read their secrets, then they can’t know mine, either. I am a mystery, too. To them and, I hope, to Damien Stark.

I’m not proud of the way I burst out of his apartment. I know I owe him an apology. I probably owe him an explanation, too, but that will have to wait. I need to come up with something plausible. Stark may not be able to guess my secrets, but I’m certain he will know if I lie.

I finish my muffin and stand up, taking the rest of my coffee with me. As I do, the full import of my thoughts hit me. I’m planning to see Damien Stark again.

The thought twists through me, trepidation mixed with anticipation. And a tiny bit of fear mixed in there, too. Will he even want to see me again? More important, will he accept that this thing between us has to come to an abrupt and permanent end?

Of course he’ll accept it. Wasn’t he the one who said it was my decision? Who’d put the power very firmly with me?

I’d blown it, though. I’d forgotten the depth of my own weakness, and it’s never safe to think that you’re stronger than you are.

My thoughts have propelled me through the mall back to the escalator. I take it down to my parking level and climb back in my car. I feel better even if I don’t feel whole. But it’s good that I’ve made the decision about Stark. I will see him, and I will apologize. But not yet. A few days. Maybe a week. I need time to get centered again. Time to grow strong.

Because Damien Stark is like crack to me. Seductive and very, very addictive.

13

Jamie’s car is parked in her spot when I get back to the apartment, and I’m glad. With luck, she won’t have plans for the evening. It’s Saturday, and on the drive over the hill I decided that we should do the whole best friends hanging out thing. Maybe a hike in the hills above Studio City, then hit the showers, get dressed up, and do dinner and drinks in some trendy Los Angeles hot spot. After all, I’m still new in town. Los Angeles and I are still in the honeymoon phase.

I’m not overtly planning on telling her the details of my day, but I know that after a few glasses of wine I’ll probably reveal all. The thought cheers me, actually. I’ve had my few hours to brood. Now I want to dish with my best friend and let her remind me that as screwed up as I might be, I’m not the biggest head case in the world. That’s Jamie’s special talent. No matter how many knots I twist myself into, she’s the one who can unravel me. She and Ollie. I suppose that’s why they’re my best friends.

I circle the building, then take the stairs two at a time to 3G, our unit.

The door’s unlocked, and I throw it open and stomp inside. “Dammit, Jamie, why not just post a sign on the door inviting every whack job in the city to waltz right in and—oh.”

She’s home, all right. Sitting on the couch, the television blaring out an old episode of Jeopardy! And sitting right next to her is Damien Stark.

At least he was sitting when I first burst through the door. Now he’s standing and moving toward me. Jamie shifts position, pulling her feet up onto the couch and raising herself up so that I can’t help but see her face over Damien’s approaching form.

OMG, she mouths. He is so fucking hot.

Yes, he is.

He’s still wearing jeans, but the sport coat and button-down shirt are gone, replaced with a simple white T-shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and strong, tanned arms. I imagine those arms holding a racquet. Then I imagine them holding me.

Then I clear my throat.

Damien grins, and although I know he’s barely thirty, this is the first time he’s looked so young. Almost boyish, like a guy you’d hold hands with as you walk across a college campus. I catch the scent of him as he comes closer. A musky cologne. Or maybe that’s just the man. I’m not sure. All I know for certain is that I’m desperately aware of him. Desperately aware of my own body. His scent, apparently, works on me like pheromones.

“You’re here,” I say stupidly.

“I’m here,” he says.

“Right.” I look around the condo that has become so familiar to me over the last few days. Right then, it looks like alien territory. I set my bag down on the ground, then ease myself off to the galley-style kitchen. With the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, I’ll have a moment of privacy to gather myself.

Except he follows me, then leans up against the refrigerator. I turn away from him toward the sink, but I can feel his eyes on me as I grab a glass from the dish drainer and fill it with water. “So, how come you’re here?” I ask brightly, then chug the whole thing down. Only after I’ve refilled the glass do I turn to look directly at Damien.

His eyes are locked onto me, holding me in place. “I wanted to see you,” he says. From his expression, though, I know what he’s really saying: I wanted to see if you’re okay.

I smile, understanding that his discretion means he hasn’t told Jamie what happened. “I’m good,” I say. “I went shopping.”

“And what woman wouldn’t be good after that?”

I raise my brows. “Stereotypical, much?”

He chuckles. “If the shoe fits, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Mmm.” I try to fight my grin, but lose the battle.

Jamie sidles in from the living room, a vicious grin on her face. Her eyes dart between the two of us. She’s in pajama bottoms and a cheap white tank top covered with paint. “I am so freaking late,” she says. “I have totally got to run.” She practically sprints for the door. “You two be good.”