She stared him down. “What do you want, Bram? We both know your showing up here isn’t an accident.”

He rose, wandered toward the railing, and peered down at the beach. “If Trev had been stupid enough to take you up on your bizarre offer, what would you have done for a sex life?”

“Right. That’s something I’m going to talk to you about.”

“Who better to confide in?” he said. “I was there at the beginning, remember?”

She couldn’t bear another moment, and she spun toward the French doors.

“Just out of curiosity, Scoot…,” he said from behind her. “Now that Trev’s rejected you, who’s next in line to be Mr. Georgie York?”

She pasted on a smile full of mockery and turned back. “Aren’t you sweet to tax that big evil head of yours worrying about my future when your own life is such a screwed-up mess.” Her hand was trembling, but she gave what she hoped passed for a jaunty wave and went inside. Trev had just gotten off the phone, but she was too drained to do more than ask him to at least consider her idea.

By the time she reached Pacific Palisades, she was so tightly coiled she ached. She ignored the photographer parked at the end of her court and turned into a narrow driveway that curled down to an unassuming pseudo-Mediterranean ranch that could have fit into her former home’s swimming pool. She hadn’t been able to bear staying in the house where she and Lance had lived. This rental came furnished with bulky pieces that were too heavy for the small rooms, just as the ceilings were too low for the rough wooden beams, but she didn’t care enough to look for another place.

She cranked open a bedroom window, then made herself check her voice mail.

“Georgie, I saw the stupid tabloid, and-”

Delete

“Georgie, I’m so sorry-”

Delete

“He’s a bastard, kiddo, and you’re-”

Delete

Her friends were well meaning-most of them, anyway-but their nonstop sympathy choked her. She wanted to be the one handing out sympathy for a change, not always having to receive it.