That’s where I head to now, my slot tucked in next to Damien’s. His prototype Tesla is there, his most recent new toy. I’d seen it as I pulled in and assumed he was in the office. Foolish, since I know that just because his car is on-site doesn’t mean that Damien is, too. He habitually has Edward drive him to meetings so that he can review files on the way.
Now, I pass behind the Tesla, trailing my fingertips over the sleek, space-gray chassis as I approach Coop. I have the keys out, and I click the button to unlock the driver’s side door. I pull it open, then toss my purse into the passenger seat as I slide in behind the wheel. As soon as I’m settled I see a folded piece of paper under my windshield wiper. I bite back a curse—no solicitation is allowed in the parking lot—and lean out of the car far enough so that I can reach around and grab the paper.
Since I’m certain it’s an advertisement for a new fast food delivery service or a nearby carwash, I almost toss it into the backseat without even reading it. But as my fingers tighten to crumple it, I notice that the printing has bled through. Thick, black magic marker in what appears to be block letters.
Curious, I open it, then lean back in my seat, my heart pounding.
SPOILED
LITTLE
RICH
GIRL
A stare at it. One beat, then another. Then I realize that I’ve been holding my breath and suck in a gallon of air. Now I really do crumple up the note and toss it in the back, then I clutch the steering wheel and breathe. In and out, in and out. Again and again until I’m calm.
Mary Lee?
Could this note possibly have been left by Mary Lee?
I try to consider that rationally, and once my brain starts functioning again, I decide it’s not her. I’d lingered before leaving. I’d had one of the security guards drive me back to Upper Crust. I’d paid attention to my surroundings once I got into my car and drove away. And I hadn’t noticed anyone following me.
She’d have no reason to think I was coming to see Damien, so she wouldn’t have beat me here.
So, no, surely it’s not Mary Lee.
Which means the note was left by an unknown person. Still creepy. Still unpleasant. Still worthy of my sweaty palms.
But whoever left this note wasn’t in my home.
Instead, it’s an anonymous, jealous sender. And while I don’t like feeling singled out, the note doesn’t rock my world. After all, Damien has enough money to buy and sell the universe several times over, and I’m the woman he married. That makes some people curious. It makes others envious. Some, it makes downright mean.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been vilified for marrying into money. But just because I’m not quaking in terror doesn’t mean that I’m not affected, and I automatically reach for my phone, my fingers ready to call Damien.
I stop myself. There’s no point. It’s a mean note, left by someone sad and pathetic. But I’ve already reasoned that there’s no more to it than that.
Still, I need to at least report it, and so even though I’m already in a hurry, I shove the note into my purse, climb out of the car, and head upstairs to the lobby.
“Mrs. Stark,” Joe says, his basset-hound face lighting up with his smile. “I thought you’d left.”
“I found this on my car,” I say, handing him the note. “It’s not a threat, but security should be aware.”
He unfolds the paper, his expression going hard as he reads it. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Stark,” he says, his anger obvious even under the professional veneer. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling remarkably lighter as I head back to the car. As if passing off the note has also passed off the weight of the writer’s jealousy.
“And you’re sure the note didn’t have anything to do with that bitch?” my best friend, Jamie Archer Hunter, asks.
“I’m sure.” I’ve told her the whole story, of course. “At least as sure as I can be.”
“Well, that’s something. But still. What a bitch. What a total, fucking bitch. Mary Lee. Never heard of her. Probably some newbie trash magazine reporter who thinks scandal and bullshit gossip is the way to break in.” Jamie leans forward, her dark eyes narrowed over the rim of her wine glass. “What can I do? Do you want me to find out about her? I could talk to some people. Make sure she never sells another story.”
I’m tempted, but in the end, I shake my head. “Just let it go. I might call her editor and complain, but I’m going to wait a day and calm down more.”
“Who’s the editor?”
I check my phone again. “Ellen Anderson. SoCal Working Mom Weekly.”
Jamie lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know her, but I’ve heard of the magazine. One of those tiny things that’s mostly supported by advertising, but it’s legit.” She wrinkles her nose. “But not very if they hire freaks like Mary Lee. I mean, seriously? What is wrong with people? You let her into your house. You granted her an interview.”
She flashes me a wicked grin. “Hell, you haven’t even given me an interview. It would be so easy. A quick run through the house, and then we could sit by the pool, and I could interrogate you about all your secrets.”
“And that, James, is exactly the problem,” I say, using my old nickname for her. “You know which rocks to turn over.” I punctuate my words with a laugh, because the whole point of this conversation is to cheer me up, but her words set loose a herd of flustered moths in my stomach.
Jamie’s not only my best friend, but also an entertainment reporter, and in all these years, it’s never even occurred to me to offer her that kind of an in-depth lifestyle interview. Which makes me a crappy friend.
More to the current point, if I’d already done a Mom-In-Business interview with my best friend, I probably would have said no to the editor who sent Mary Lee.
“Don’t.”
I draw in a breath and meet Jamie’s eyes. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t dwell on it. You’re a celebrity now, Nicholas. Whether you want to be or not. That means you’re like honey to an ant. Or a cockroach.” She wrinkles her nose. “Do cockroaches go after honey?”
I don’t even bother answering. “I love you, James.”
“Well, duh. Why wouldn’t you?”
She makes a good point, and I grin as I dig my toes into the warm sand beneath our table, feeling better already. Surf’s Up is the hottest new restaurant in Santa Monica, or so Jamie tells me. I believe her. The small interior dining room’s ambiance is bright and welcoming, but it’s the outdoor section that really makes the place pop.
Even though Jamie told me that the place was on the beach, I hadn’t taken her literally, and immediately upon arriving, I regretted my choice of heels. The hostess, however, suggested that I either leave them in a cubby by the back door and continue barefoot or switch to one of the complimentary spa-style sandals they provide for guests.
I’d opted for barefoot, and I’d followed her across the open-air dining room, the perimeter of which is marked by an insubstantial, whitewashed fence. The flooring is nothing more than the natural sand, raked flat beneath each of the well-placed tables, all of which are topped with tied-down white cloths and pale blue umbrellas. Just a few yards away, the Pacific crashes onto the beach, the roar of the waves and the brush of the salty wind adding both whimsy and character to the place.
All in all, the comfortable, fun atmosphere ensures that locals will flock to the place. But the stellar menu is what really puts it on the map.
“You picked the perfect place,” I tell her.
“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says. “I figured we should go for the gusto.”
Forever is a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s true that she’s been so busy that almost two months have passed since we last got together. First, she flew to London to meet her husband, Ryan, when he decided to take a few days off before flying back to the states after a work gig. Then she went on tour for three weeks with Pink Chameleon, a Grammy Award winning band that she’s be
en covering. We talked on the phone, and I caught a few of her interviews with the band and fans, but it really wasn’t the same. I’ve missed my best friend. And now, with this stupid Mary Lee interview, I feel like I’ve totally taken her for granted.
“What?’ Jamie demands, then takes a sip of the crisp Pinot Grigio she ordered before I arrived.
“Huh?” I look up, startled. “Nothing,” I lie, then reach for my own wine and draw my finger through the beads of condensation that sparkle on the outside of the glass.
She pushes her dark, wavy hair back from her face as she shakes her head. “Oh my God. Don’t even go there.”
“Where?”
“Oh, please. You’re feeling all guilty about not giving me an interview. Don’t even try to deny it.”