“Think about it, Trev. Please.” She needed to let him get used to the idea before she mentioned children. “Think how liberating it would be.”

“I’m not marrying you.”

“Me either.” A horrifyingly familiar voice drifted across the deck. “I’d rather stop drinking.”

Georgie shot to her feet and watched Bramwell Shepard saunter up the stairs from the beach. He stopped at the top, his mouth quirking with calculated amusement.

She sucked in her breath.

“Don’t let me interrupt.” He leaned against the rail. “This is the most interesting conversation I’ve eavesdropped on since Scooter and her friends debated dyeing their pubic hair. Trev, why didn’t you tell me you’re a fairy? Now we can’t ever be seen in public together again.”

Unlike Georgie, Trevor seemed relieved by the interruption, and he pointed his margarita glass in the general direction of Bram’s sun-drenched head. “You fixed me up with my last boyfriend.”

“I must have been wasted.” Her former costar took her in. “Speaking of wasted…You look like crap.”

She had to get out of here. She glanced toward the doors that led back into the house, but a frail ember of dignity still lingered in the ashes of her self-respect, and she couldn’t let him see her run. “What are you doing here?” she said. “This isn’t an accident.”

He nodded toward the pitcher. “You two aren’t really drinking that shit, are you?”

“I’m sure you remember where I keep the real liquor.” Trev eyed her with concern.

“Later.” Bram folded his long frame onto the chaise across from the one where Georgie had been sitting. The sand clinging to his calves sparkled like tiny diamonds. The breeze frolicked in his crisp golden-bronze hair. Her stomach twisted. A beautiful debauched angel.

The image had come from an essay written by a well-known television critic not long after the debacle that had ended one of the most successful television shows in history. She still remembered.