“I’ll be waiting,” I say, then watch as Rachel hands him an itinerary. He tucks it his briefcase, kisses me once more, then heads toward his private elevator.
I don’t exhale until the doors close behind him, then I sag with relief and watch as Rachel does the same.
“I take it back,” she says. “That was one hell of a good performance. You might just manage this after all.”
“Are you kidding?” Jamie says. “You’re never going to pull that off. Rachel’s insane. And frankly, I’m a little concerned about your mental health, too.”
“Very funny,” I say, as Lady Meow-Meow, Jamie’s fluffy white cat, kneads my skirt with her claws and purrs as loud as a lawn mower. “Yes,” I say, running my hand over her head, “I miss you, too.”
We’re in Jamie’s condo, which hasn’t changed that much since I used to live here with her. It’s still decorated in Early American Garage Sale, but she’s added more movie posters to the wall.
My old bedroom is now an office, although when I was in there earlier, I noticed that she’s stopped using the closet as a giant filing cabinet. Now, it holds a full wardrobe of men’s clothes.
“So where’s Ryan?” I ask, referring to Jamie’s boyfriend, Ryan Hunter, who also happens to be the Security Chief for Stark International.
“Oh, he’s at his place today.”
I frown. “His place? I saw the closet and assumed he moved in with you.”
She lifts a shoulder, then pulls her legs up under her, yoga-style. She’s in the rattiest clothes she owns, isn’t wearing a bit of make-up, and still manages to look glamorous enough she could be mistaken for an A-list star. “Well, he’s here most of the time,” she says, “but it’s not a one-hundred percent thing. I mean, a girl needs her space, right?”
I shift on the sofa so that I can see her better, and in the process disturb Lady Meow-Meow, who nips the back of my hand, then hisses lazily before jumping down to the carpet. “Is something going on with you two? I mean, you’re okay, right?”
“Of course we’re okay. In case you missed the memo, I’m head over heels, one-hundred percent in love with Ryan.”
“Actually, I got that memo.” My best friend—who used to approach sex as if it was a hobby—is now devoted to just one man. Or, I’d been assuming she was. Now, though, I’m getting a weird vibe.
“James,” I say, calling her by the familiar nickname. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Really.”
I cross my arms. “Tell.”
She sighs heavily. “Honestly, Nicholas, it’s no big deal. He just started up with the wedding talk and. . .” She trails off with a shrug.
“Really?” I couldn’t be happier. “I’ve been wondering when I could go shopping for a matron of honor dress.”
Jamie shakes her head violently. “No, no, no. That conversation is way off limits. I can love him without marrying him.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No,” she says adamantly. “Conversation over. Done. Fini. End of story.”
“Fine.” I hold up my hands, because I know better than to push. Despite the fact that her parents are amazing and have been happily, blissfully married for decades, Jamie reviles the institution of marriage. “Not yours,” she once told me. “You and Damien were absolutely right to get married. It fits you perfectly. But me? Not so much.”
I don’t know why she feels that way, but I do know that I’m afraid for her and Ryan. She adores him, and he’s mad for her. But if he pushes too hard, he may end up pushing her away.
And since I don’t want to accidentally contribute to that possible rift, I back quickly and firmly away from the topic. “Just as well, because you and Ryan are so not my problem. I need to figure out where to have the party and how to keep it a secret.”
“Like I already said, the secret’s gonna take a miracle,” Jamie says. “As for the location, I figured you were having it at your Malibu house. But you could have it at the apartment. He wouldn’t expect a party in Stark Tower.”
She has a point, but neither of the ideas thrill me. “I want something different. Something unexpected.”
“The island?”
“We go to the resort all the time,” I say, referring to The Resort at Cortez, a Stark Vacation project that’s also all in the family considering Sylvia was the project manager and Jackson the architect.
“Not that island. I’m talking about the one out in the Caribbean. The island he bought you after your honeymoon.”
“Oh!” I consider that. We’d been hounded by paparazzi on our honeymoon, and in order to get truly, completely, one-hundred percent away, Damien had bought a small island. As one does. If one happens to have billions of dollars tucked away, anyway.
“That would be great,” I say, “except there’s just a tiny house with only one bathroom. Somehow I don’t think that’s the kind of destination party our friends would appreciate.”
“Are you saying we’re all too prissy?”
“Pretty much.”