I’m shaking my head slowly. Backbone? Coping? Who the hell does Evelyn think she’s looking at?
“Don’t you pull that with me,” Evelyn says, eyeing me knowingly. “You’re a survivor, Texas, and we both know it. I never played the bullshit card with my clients, and I sure as hell don’t do it with my friends. And it’s a damn good thing you’re a survivor, too. Because no one else could last a week with our boy.”
That makes me grin. And, honestly, so do her words. Because the more I think about them, the more I realize how true they are. Yes, I’ve got some ginormous issues, but I’ve been tackling them. And for the most part, I’ve been beating them.
“I can tell you the exact way it’ll play out when she finally turns up, too. Damien will head over to London to make sure she’s okay and get her admitted to yet another facility. And the press will start speculating that Damien’s tossing Sofia aside in favor of you. Or vice versa.”
“Tossing her aside? But they’re not together. Damien told me they haven’t been together since they were kids.”
“When has the truth ever bothered the press? Every time they’re photographed together, the London papers practically have them engaged. It’ll be more interesting this time around, now that you’re in the picture.”
“Interesting isn’t the word I’d choose,” I say dryly.
“If you can’t make them stop, at least let them entertain you,” she says. And I have to admit, that’s probably good advice.
“Speaking of speculation,” she continues, “the rumors are also flying that I’m returning to agenting.”
“Are you?”
“Fuck no,” she says, with a sound that is somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. “But my old firm’s been doing the full-court press, trying to get me back behind a phone and a desk. And you know what? Who knows. Maybe if they sweeten the pot enough I’ll reconsider. Right now I’m just amusing myself watching them run around talking up potential projects. Like yours,” she adds with a wicked grin.
“Mine? My what?”
“Take your pick, Texas. There are producers salivating to get you on reality TV. And there are at least half a dozen companies looking to hire you to do product endorsements. Want to be the face of a makeup line? I could arrange it like that,” she says with a saucy snap of her fingers.
I just shake my head. “This is the weirdest city.”
Evelyn snorts. “Hell, yes it is.”
“If they’re just looking for a face, tell them to look at Jamie’s. I look better in real life than I do on film, but Jamie was made for the camera.”
“Good point there, Texas.” I’m joking, but I’m not entirely sure Evelyn realizes that.
I’m still buzzing from sugar and conversation when Evelyn heads back to Malibu and I return to my office. I study the portfolio of Blaine’s work that she left with me and make a few notes for the app she wants me to design. I want it to stand out—to have more functionality than simply as a portable display case—and I am so engrossed in brainstorming that I don’t realize the time until the intercom buzzes and the receptionist tells me that a Ms. Reynard is in the lobby.
“Oh, right. Send her on back.” I remain seated when she comes in—I’m the boss, after all—and greet her with my Professional Nikki smile. Another perk of my horrific childhood—I am well-versed at hiding my emotions under a variety of tried and true pageant-quality smiles. So I am confident that Giselle has no idea that I’m still wary—or that tiny seeds of jealousy remain buried just below the surface, ready to sprout if she says the wrong thing or looks at Damien with the slightest hint of attraction.