Page 67 of My Beautiful Sin

This is an envelope from a dentist’s office with Past Due stamped on it.

“Um,” I repeat, thinking how grateful I am that I never got hooked on social media. I know there are posts about Devlin and me, but I’m mostly oblivious, figuring that someone will give one of us a heads-up if the posts turn creepy.

“Oh, please,” she says. “I swear I won’t sell it.”

I almost laugh, because the thought that anyone would pay for my signature is beyond funny. The owner, Inez, catches my eye, her head tilting in question. Shall I get rid of her?

I shake my head just enough to let her know it’s fine. “Yeah,” I say to the woman. “Sure, I’ll sign.”

I do, and she looks so ridiculously grateful that I think she must have mistaken me for a movie star. “That was weird,” I tell Inez and Brandy after the woman’s hurried outside, probably to go put my signature in her safe deposit box.

“People collect things,” Inez says with a shrug. “That’s part of why the line of turtle jewelry I sell does so well.” She flashes a teasing smile that reaches all the way to her pale blue eyes. “When I read about Devlin Saint before, I used to think he collected women. But I guess I was wrong. He seems very content with only one trophy in his collection.”

I do a fake curtsey and the three of us laugh. I’ve liked Inez since she saved my ass by finding me an affordable cocktail dress right after I’d arrived in Laguna Cortez. Now, Brandy and I invite her to come get a coffee with us.

“Rain check,” she promises. “I have a stack of paperwork to get through. Running a business can be a pain in the ass. Plus, I’m expecting a delivery. But thank you for the offer.”

“Any more stops?” I ask Brandy when we’re back on the street.

“Not unless there’s someplace you want to go.”

I think about it, but shake my head. There are dozens of cute stores on Pacific Avenue, but we’re working our way toward the Devlin Saint Foundation. Which means that right now, the only thing standing between Devlin and me is a short break for coffee.

Fortunately, she’s just as eager to see Christopher, so we forgo sitting and chatting in favor of getting to-go coffees from Brewski and continuing on.

We cross the Pacific Coast Highway, then walk the short distance south to the DSF parking lot. I’m about to veer toward the main doors when Brandy comes to a stop, calling for me to hold up, too.

“What?”

“Who’s that with Anna?”

I follow her line of sight toward the beach, then shrug. “I have no idea.”

“He’s hot,” Brandy says.

I squint. “Maybe. They’re too far away to tell.” All I can see is that he has light brown hair and an ass that fills out his jeans. Not a bad start, but until I know more, I’m not calling him hot.

“Doesn’t look like Anna cares anyway,” Brandy says when I tell her as much. “She looks annoyed.”

Brandy’s right. Anna’s arms are crossed over her chest, and her head is cocked to one side. I think they might be arguing, but between the sound of the ocean and the roar of traffic behind us, I can’t make out a single word.

“Boyfriend?” Brandy suggests, then lifts a hand when Anna turns a bit in our direction.

She doesn’t react, though, and Brandy lowers her hand as I say, “I don’t think she saw us. And as for who he is, I haven’t got a clue. You could ask Christopher. Maybe he knows.”

“I guess,” Brandy says as she shrugs. We turn away, and I know she won’t ask. That’s fine by me. I’m curious in the moment, but who Anna dates or argues with is very low on my list of things to worry about.

“I think I’m going to see if Christopher wants to blow off writing and go see a movie,” she says as we wave to Paul and head toward the elevator.

“You just saw The Maltese Falcon.”

“No, we made out during The Maltese Falcon,” she retorts.

“Seriously?” I press a hand over my heart. “I’m so proud.”

“I felt so naughty. You should try it.”

“I have no trouble feeling naughty all on my own, but I can’t say it’s a bad idea. Look at you,” I add with a grin. “You’re turning into a wicked bad influence.”