Lost With Me Page 5

  That’s where I head to now, my slot tucked in next to Damien’s. His prototype Tesla is there, his most recent new toy. I’d seen it as I pulled in and assumed he was in the office. Foolish, since I know that just because his car is on-site doesn’t mean that Damien is, too. He habitually has Edward drive him to meetings so that he can review files on the way.

  Now, I pass behind the Tesla, trailing my fingertips over the sleek, space-gray chassis as I approach Coop. I have the keys out, and I click the button to unlock the driver’s side door. I pull it open, then toss my purse into the passenger seat as I slide in behind the wheel. As soon as I’m settled I see a folded piece of paper under my windshield wiper. I bite back a curse—no solicitation is allowed in the parking lot—and lean out of the car far enough so that I can reach around and grab the paper.

  Since I’m certain it’s an advertisement for a new fast food delivery service or a nearby carwash, I almost toss it into the backseat without even reading it. But as my fingers tighten to crumple it, I notice that the printing has bled through. Thick, black magic marker in what appears to be block letters.

  Curious, I open it, then lean back in my seat, my heart pounding.

  SPOILED

  LITTLE

  RICH

  GIRL

  A stare at it. One beat, then another. Then I realize that I’ve been holding my breath and suck in a gallon of air. Now I really do crumple up the note and toss it in the back, then I clutch the steering wheel and breathe. In and out, in and out. Again and again until I’m calm.

  Mary Lee?

  Could this note possibly have been left by Mary Lee?

  I try to consider that rationally, and once my brain starts functioning again, I decide it’s not her. I’d lingered before leaving. I’d had one of the security guards drive me back to Upper Crust. I’d paid attention to my surroundings once I got into my car and drove away. And I hadn’t noticed anyone following me.

  She’d have no reason to think I was coming to see Damien, so she wouldn’t have beat me here.

  So, no, surely it’s not Mary Lee.

  Which means the note was left by an unknown person. Still creepy. Still unpleasant. Still worthy of my sweaty palms.

  But whoever left this note wasn’t in my home.

  Instead, it’s an anonymous, jealous sender. And while I don’t like feeling singled out, the note doesn’t rock my world. After all, Damien has enough money to buy and sell the universe several times over, and I’m the woman he married. That makes some people curious. It makes others envious. Some, it makes downright mean.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been vilified for marrying into money. But just because I’m not quaking in terror doesn’t mean that I’m not affected, and I automatically reach for my phone, my fingers ready to call Damien.

  I stop myself. There’s no point. It’s a mean note, left by someone sad and pathetic. But I’ve already reasoned that there’s no more to it than that.

  Still, I need to at least report it, and so even though I’m already in a hurry, I shove the note into my purse, climb out of the car, and head upstairs to the lobby.

  “Mrs. Stark,” Joe says, his basset-hound face lighting up with his smile. “I thought you’d left.”

  “I found this on my car,” I say, handing him the note. “It’s not a threat, but security should be aware.”

  He unfolds the paper, his expression going hard as he reads it. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Stark,” he says, his anger obvious even under the professional veneer. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling remarkably lighter as I head back to the car. As if passing off the note has also passed off the weight of the writer’s jealousy.

  “And you’re sure the note didn’t have anything to do with that bitch?” my best friend, Jamie Archer Hunter, asks.

  “I’m sure.” I’ve told her the whole story, of course. “At least as sure as I can be.”

  “Well, that’s something. But still. What a bitch. What a total, fucking bitch. Mary Lee. Never heard of her. Probably some newbie trash magazine reporter who thinks scandal and bullshit gossip is the way to break in.” Jamie leans forward, her dark eyes narrowed over the rim of her wine glass. “What can I do? Do you want me to find out about her? I could talk to some people. Make sure she never sells another story.”

  I’m tempted, but in the end, I shake my head. “Just let it go. I might call her editor and complain, but I’m going to wait a day and calm down more.”

  “Who’s the editor?”

  I check my phone again. “Ellen Anderson. SoCal Working Mom Weekly.”

  Jamie lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know her, but I’ve heard of the magazine. One of those tiny things that’s mostly supported by advertising, but it’s legit.” She wrinkles her nose. “But not very if they hire freaks like Mary Lee. I mean, seriously? What is wrong with people? You let her into your house. You granted her an interview.”

  She flashes me a wicked grin. “Hell, you haven’t even given me an interview. It would be so easy. A quick run through the house, and then we could sit by the pool, and I could interrogate you about all your secrets.”

  “And that, James, is exactly the problem,” I say, using my old nickname for her. “You know which rocks to turn over.” I punctuate my words with a laugh, because the whole point of this conversation is to cheer me up, but her words set loose a herd of flustered moths in my stomach.

  Jamie’s not only my best friend, but also an entertainment reporter, and in all these years, it’s never even occurred to me to offer her that kind of an in-depth lifestyle interview. Which makes me a crappy friend.

  More to the current point, if I’d already done a Mom-In-Business interview with my best friend, I probably would have said no to the editor who sent Mary Lee.

  “Don’t.”

  I draw in a breath and meet Jamie’s eyes. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t dwell on it. You’re a celebrity now, Nicholas. Whether you want to be or not. That means you’re like honey to an ant. Or a cockroach.” She wrinkles her nose. “Do cockroaches go after honey?”

  I don’t even bother answering. “I love you, James.”

  “Well, duh. Why wouldn’t you?”

  She makes a good point, and I grin as I dig my toes into the warm sand beneath our table, feeling better already. Surf’s Up is the hottest new restaurant in Santa Monica, or so Jamie tells me. I believe her. The small interior dining room’s ambiance is bright and welcoming, but it’s the outdoor section that really makes the place pop.

  Even though Jamie told me that the place was on the beach, I hadn’t taken her literally, and immediately upon arriving, I regretted my choice of heels. The hostess, however, suggested that I either leave them in a cubby by the back door and continue barefoot or switch to one of the complimentary spa-style sandals they provide for guests.

  I’d opted for barefoot, and I’d followed her across the open-air dining room, the perimeter of which is marked by an insubstantial, whitewashed fence. The flooring is nothing more than the natural sand, raked flat beneath each of the well-placed tables, all of which are topped with tied-down white cloths and pale blue umbrellas. Just a few yards away, the Pacific crashes onto the beach, the roar of the waves and the brush of the salty wind adding both whimsy and character to the place.

  All in all, the comfortable, fun atmosphere ensures that locals will flock to the place. But the stellar menu is what really puts it on the map.

  “You picked the perfect place,” I tell her.

  “I haven’t seen you in forever,” she says. “I figured we should go for the gusto.”

  Forever is a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s true that she’s been so busy that almost two months have passed since we last got together. First, she flew to London to meet her husband, Ryan, when he decided to take a few days off before flying back to the states after a work gig. Then she went on tour for three weeks with Pink Chameleon, a Grammy Award winning band that she’s be
en covering. We talked on the phone, and I caught a few of her interviews with the band and fans, but it really wasn’t the same. I’ve missed my best friend. And now, with this stupid Mary Lee interview, I feel like I’ve totally taken her for granted.

  “What?’ Jamie demands, then takes a sip of the crisp Pinot Grigio she ordered before I arrived.

  “Huh?” I look up, startled. “Nothing,” I lie, then reach for my own wine and draw my finger through the beads of condensation that sparkle on the outside of the glass.

  She pushes her dark, wavy hair back from her face as she shakes her head. “Oh my God. Don’t even go there.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh, please. You’re feeling all guilty about not giving me an interview. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  “Well, I guess that proves you’re my best friend. You just read my mind.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, you loon.”

  “I know I don’t. But do you want one? A camera crew, open access? The full-meal deal. It honestly never occurred to me before, but I’m sure Damien would agree. And if we did a normal family theme—”

  She bursts out laughing, but I just arch a brow and soldier on.

  “—like showing the house and the kids and Damien cooking pancakes, then how bad could that be?”

  “No way,” Jamie says. “You know you’d hate it. But if we did, Lacey Dunlop would turn positively green. I mean, talk about a high-profile coup.”

  Lacey Dunlop is tall, lithe, eight years younger than Jamie, and the newest on-air reporter for the entertainment network where Jamie works. She’s not nearly as pretty—but she’s blonde, personable, and bubbly. In other words, the camera and viewers love her. She also has family in the business, which gives her access to loads of celebrities. And every time she’s crossed paths with Jamie, she’s been—in Jamie’s words—“as cold as a dead Alaskan salmon.”

  “So, let’s do it.”

  She tosses her hair. “Hell no. I love you way more than I want to show up Lacey Dunlop, even if she is stealing some of my plum assignments. Seriously, you’re sweet to offer, but no.”

  I nod. That’s the thing about me and Jamie—I know she means it. So, I lift my glass in a silent toast and make a mental note to mention the interview to Damien.

  She tilts her head to the side and looks at me thoughtfully for so long I start to squirm under the inspection.

  “What?”

  “What, what? Oh.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Nothing.”

  I raise my brows and stare her down until I see her shoulders sag in defeat.

  “Fine. You got me thinking about you and interviews. And that got me thinking about you and reporters. And—well, look. I know I kind of pushed you into it. So, if you want to pull out, I totally get it.”

  She’s talking about tomorrow, and the moths in my stomach that had fallen asleep burst back into action.

  “It’s fine,” I’d lifted may glass to take a sip of wine, but now I put it back down, untouched. “I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if it wasn’t fine.”

  Tomorrow, I’m going to announce that I’m the newest Stark Children’s Foundation Youth Advocate. Right after I give the keynote speech at the bi-annual fundraising brunch.

  Damien set up the Children’s Foundation years ago, the purpose of which is to help abused and neglected children in the Los Angeles area. It’s grown over the years, and now has chapters all over the world.

  The SCF has always relied on celebrities to help spread the word and act as a face of the organization, but the Youth Advocate role is relatively new. It was created by our friend, Hollywood A-Lister Lyle Tarpin. A hugely successful actor, he served as the celebrity liaison for the foundation until some of his dark secrets were outed during one of his public appearances.

  While Damien had Lyle’s back, the board insisted he step down as the celebrity sponsor. He did, but then later came up with the idea for the youth advocate program, wherein celebrities with issues—especially issues they battled in their childhood and teen years—go public so that troubled kids realize that they aren’t alone.

  That suggestion was enthusiastically received, and Lyle became a great first Youth Advocate. As a bonus, he’s also gotten his shit together, is happily married, and is a good friend.

  Jamie and Ryan are both big supporters of the Foundation. And when the Youth Advocate program was created, Jamie volunteered to be on the committee that invites celebrities into the role.

  I may not be an entertainment celebrity, but my marriage to Damien shoved me into the spotlight. And my history of cutting—and all the reasons behind it—makes me a prime candidate for the role of a SYA. I haven’t cut for years, but it’s still what I am, because I know the potential is always there. And when Jamie asked me to consider the position, I decided to do it.

  Jamie runs her finger idly over the rim of her wine glass, but doesn’t take a sip. “It’s just that I’d understand if you want to back out. I mean, Damien’s always been a little leery, and now ... I don’t know. I guess I am, too.”

  “Because of Mary Lee,” I say, and she shrugs.

  I sigh, wishing I could just snap my fingers and erase her worry. Damien’s, too. But I know that I can’t. They understand better than anyone what I’m doing. What I’m revealing. And though they both repeatedly tell me that I’m strong, they also both know that I’m not shatterproof. And, yes, there were some definite cracks showing after my encounter with that bitch today.

  So I understand her worry. Hell, I agree with it. Because even with Damien’s love and the strength it’s given me, this speech tomorrow has the potential to break me.

  I’m better now, though. I know I am. First, Jamie and Ollie had my back. And then, with Damien in my life, I truly found the strength to fight back that need. That compulsion. Even the therapist I saw before adopting Lara confirmed how far I’ve come.

  Most important, I haven’t gotten complacent. I know that the need is still inside me.

  And going public—sharing my story with kids who have similar issues—is my way to keep on fighting.

  Tomorrow, I guess, I’ll be fighting Mary Lee as much as myself.

  It’s scary, sure, but I’m confident. And I guess I’ll know tomorrow if I’m doing the right thing, or if I’m making a horrible decision.

  “You know it’s time for me to do this,” I tell Jamie now.

  She shrugs. “I don’t, actually. All I can do is trust that you know it. And you know I trust you. Always. I just worry. BFF privilege.”

  I nod, tears pricking my eyes. “I love you, James.”

  “Back at you, Nicholas.”

  Our eyes meet, and we’re both a little sniffily. Then she shakes her head, like a dog ridding itself of fleas. “Moving on to the important stuff,” she says firmly, tapping her menu. “Are we doing appetizers?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I need to go to the gym,” she says with a frown.

  I cock a brow, because Jamie looks amazing as always. I love her, true, but it’s not love or loyalty talking when I say that Jamie is drop-dead, camera-ready, Hollywood starlet gorgeous. For a while, she played the role of starving actress with her eye on the Hollywood dream. But she abandoned that dream when on-camera reporting fell into her lap. And when she got an entertainment gig, she found her own personal heaven. Or so she tells everyone.

  I know her well enough to be certain that while she loves reporting on Hollywood, a small part of her still wants to be in the game. But Jamie is both a dreamer and a pragmatist. She has a good thing going right now, and she knows it. But even though she hasn’t told me as much, I’m certain that if she was offered a film or television role, she’d snatch it up so fast, the heads of everyone in Southern California would spin round in unison.

  “I’m serious,” she says, obviously recognizing my expression. “And don’t give me grief. This business is ridiculously competitive, and I haven’t been working out lately. It’s starting to
show. Especially when I’m standing side-by-side with the Lacey bitch.”

  “No way does she get to muscle you off the red carpet,” I say. “You’re much better with talent than she is. Honestly, James, you need your own show.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Right now, I just want to lose five pounds, tighten my ass, and keep my job.”

  There’s a lighthearted flair to her voice, but her words give me a chill. Surely, she’s only joking. Surely, she’d tell me if her job was really in jeopardy.

  “Work out with me,” I say, forcing myself not to interrogate her. “I’ve been wanting to change up my routine. We could go biking together.” I’ve been enjoying my mid-morning rides in Malibu, despite the bitch of a hill that we live on. “Or we could do a Barre class together. Or hire a trainer?”

  Back in my pageant days, my mother forced me to work out—yoga, dance, cardio, weights—anything and everything to keep me thin and lithe and curvy. The trouble was, I hated it. Once I finally escaped the pageant world, I bailed on the exercise and went from ridiculously tiny to a normal size eight. And that was fine by me.

  After Anne was born, though, my body and my clothes decided to mutiny. Parts of my body that had once been comfortable and familiar shifted overnight, and nothing quite fit anymore. Damien never seemed to notice, but I did, and the post-baby weight prompted me to dive back into the once-despised routine of regular exercise.

  What started as a chore turned into a habit. And now—miracle of miracles—it’s a pleasure. Without my mother breathing down my neck with her tape measure and starvation plan, I’m enjoying putting my body through its paces. There’s exhilaration and empowerment in knowing that I’m making myself stronger. A feeling of control. And God knows, I’ve been chasing control my entire life. And that need for control is part of the reason why I agreed to be a SCF Youth Advocate. Because then I’m owning the thing that I’ve been most ashamed of for years.