“Yeah,” I say, looking hard at Jamie, whose sheepish expression only makes me more nervous. “She’s here. What’s up on Tuesday?”
“Nothing specific. But I don’t have any trips this week, and we haven’t seen y’all in forever. I told Ollie that we should all go to Westerfield’s. You know it, right? That place in West Hollywood.”
“I know it,” I say wryly. Westerfield’s is one of Damien’s properties.
“So can you come?”
Part of me wants to say no, because I’m terribly afraid that there will be drama. But a bigger part of me still hopes that Jamie and Ollie and I can get back to where we were. “Sure,” I finally say. “We’ll be there.”
By the time evening rolls around, we have lounged by the pool, walked along the beach, played air hockey in a game room that I didn’t even know the property boasted, and watched the first two Sean Connery Bond films while stuffing our faces with popcorn.
For dinner, Jamie suggests that we roast hot dogs on sticks over the fire pit, and then make s’mores. It’s calorie-laden and gooey and fun, and as I lay beside Damien and lick chocolate off his fingertips, I can’t help but wonder if life can go on like this forever.
It can’t, of course, but for these few hours I am enjoying the sanctity of life within this bubble.
It ends all too soon, though. At ten, Sylvia calls to patch Damien in on a conference call with one of his Tokyo suppliers. He kisses me lightly, then heads inside to take the call. I watch him go, sipping my whiskey and enjoying the way his ass looks in his favorite threadbare jeans. Jamie, I see, is also appreciating the view. She meets my eyes, then grins. “What? Like you don’t know he’s hot?”
“Trust me,” I say as I lean forward to grab another square of chocolate. “I am fully aware of his hotness.”
“Making another?” Jamie asks, passing me the bag of marshmallows.
“Nope. Just eating the chocolate.”
“You okay?”
I glance up at her. “Chocolate isn’t always a sign of a deep emotional crisis.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
I put down the chocolate, suddenly wary. “Why?”
“No reason.” She holds up a hand as if warding off my nonexistent protest. “Really. I was just wondering what was going on with the whole stalker thing. Not that I don’t totally love it here,” she adds quickly. “But, hey, I like being around my stuff.”
“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.