She stretches her arms and yawns, disrupting Lady Meow-Meow who is a big blob of white fur in her lap. “I’m good. Must’ve fallen asleep.” She shifts in the chair, then rolls her head, getting the kinks out. I eye her for signs that she’s bullshitting me, but she seems genuinely fine. I’m relieved. Call me selfish, but I’m not in the mood to micromanage anyone’s drama but my own.

“So?” she demands as the cat leaps down and pads to the kitchen for kibble.

I shrug, still standing there in my little dress with my shoes dangling from my fingertips and my naked tush catching a breeze under the flouncy skirt. “Tired,” I say, because I need to collect my thoughts. Jamie always sees more than I want her to, and I don’t want to dive into the conversation unprepared. “Wanna grab breakfast at Du-par’s in the morning? I’ll give you the full scoop then. But it’ll have to be early.” I hook my thumb toward my bedroom. “I need to go crash.”

“You’re really not going to tell me shit? Why the hell did I wait up?”

“You didn’t wait up. You were asleep.”

She waves a hand, sweeping my logic away as irrelevant.

“In the morning,” I say, and before she can argue I turn and head to my room. I wait a second in case she decides to burst in after me, and when she doesn’t, I peel off the dress. I stand naked for a moment, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioner caress my still-hot skin. My favorite pajama bottoms are folded on my pillow, and I slip them on. I don’t bother with underwear, and the sensation of the threadbare material against my still-sensitive sex is fantastic. I think of Damien and rub my palms lightly over my bare breasts. My nipples peak, and I’m tempted to pull out my phone and call him back.

Jesus, Nikki. Get a grip.

I don’t know what Damien Stark wants from me, but the truth is that I don’t care. Because it’s not going anywhere. I’m not getting naked with Damien Stark. That’s simply a given. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the fantasy he’s given me, all wrapped up in silver paper with a bright, shiny orgasm.

I slide onto the bed and slip one hand down into the pajama bottoms. I’m no longer drunk, just nicely buzzed, and I can’t think of a better way to drift off to sleep.

The sharp chime of the doorbell nips that plan in the bud, and I leap to my feet, yanking my hand out of my pants as I move like a guilty teenager caught by her parents.

“Is that Douglas?” I shout to Jamie.

“Hell no,” she says. “I train them better than that.”

“Then who—”

“Oh, fuck,” she says, not in anger or fear, but in amazement. “Nik, honey, get your ass out here.”

I yank on a tank top and hurry into the living room, not even willing to venture a guess as to who could be out there at this time of night.

As it turns out, it’s no one. Instead, it’s a huge flower arrangement parked on the doorstep. A mass of wildflowers—daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes and other flowers I don’t recognize. They are beautiful and cheerful and warm and wild.

They are perfect.

Damien, I think, and it feels like my whole body is smiling. It has to be Damien.

Jamie bends down to snag the card and has it out of the envelope before I can reach her. I silently seethe until she looks up at me, a grin tugging at the side of her mouth.

I hold out my hand for the card, which she hands over with a gleam in her eye.

There is one word printed on it: Delicious. Beneath that are the initials D.S.

And me, the girl who never blushes, does so for about the millionth time that night.

Jamie picks up the arrangement, then carts it over to the dining table. I poke my head out the door, but there’s no one there.

“Just how good a time did you have at that party?” Jamie asks.

“Not the party,” I say, because we’ve reached the point where I either fill Jamie in or find a new best friend. “The ride home.” I drop down onto the sofa that backs up to the wall separating the living area from the kitchen. I pull my feet up and tug my favorite purple afghan over me. I’m suddenly very tired. It’s been a long and interesting day.

“No, you don’t,” Jamie says, plonking down on the antique cherrywood coffee table I’d brought with me from Texas. That puts her right in front of me. She leans forward, getting even more in my face. “Don’t even think of claiming you’re sleepy. You can’t drop a bombshell like that and not explain. The ride home? So, what? You guys went up and parked on Mulholland for some late night delight?”

“He sent me home in a limo,” I say bluntly, because I want to watch her reaction. “Alone.”

“You are such a liar. Seriously?” she adds when she sees my face.

I nod, and then—damn me—I giggle. “It was one hell of a ride.”

“Oh. My. God.” Her eyes are wide. “Okay, spill. And don’t give me any of that bullshit about privacy or being discreet or a lady doesn’t tell. You’re not your mother. I want the dirt. All of it.”

I comply. Well, not all of it, but I share the high points, starting with our bizarrely cold introduction at Evelyn’s and moving on to the testosterone-laden interchange between Stark and Ollie.

“I haven’t seen Ollie in ages,” Jamie interrupts. “The little shit. Why hasn’t he called?”

She’s not really interested in the answer, though, and urges me to keep going with my tale. I do. My exhaustion has faded along with my reticence. Jamie is my best friend, and it feels good to share, even if I do find myself mumbling and talking in euphemisms once I get to the part of the story that features me, my phone, Stark’s commanding voice, and the backseat of a limo.

“Holy fuck,” she says when I finish. It’s the third time she’s said it during my rundown.

“And I left the panties in the car,” I add. I feel devilish admitting it, even more so when Jamie’s eyes widen and she rocks with laughter.

“Holy fuck,” she repeats, this time with even more enthusiasm. “So he was really in a restaurant the whole time? God, he must have some serious blue balls.”

I experience a little trill of feminine satisfaction at the thought, then frown as another thought occurs to me. “How did he get flowers to me so fast? I was probably home less than ten minutes before they arrived.” It’s weird, the same way him already knowing my home address is odd.

“Who cares?”

It’s a fair point, but I shift around on the couch so that I can see the kitchen table and the flowers. My smile blooms wide again.

“You need to toss some condoms in your purse,” Jamie says.

“I what?”

“I’ve got a box in the bathroom. Take a few. Phone sex is the only safe sex there is, girlfriend, and he may be hot, but you don’t know where that boy’s been.” Her mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. “Or who he’s been in.”

The thought is disturbing on multiple levels, not the least of which is the unpleasant twang I feel at the thought of Damien Stark in bed with another woman. I push that aside and focus on the practical. “I don’t need condoms,” I say, “because I’m not sleeping with him.”