Page 8 of My Beautiful Sin

“Yeah, it’s me,” I shout, kicking off my shoes.

“What the hell?” she asks, appearing around the corner in pajamas and an apron. Her blond hair is now tipped in blue, the pink apparently abandoned. Jake bounds into the hall at the same time, and I bend down to rub the scruff of his neck as he whines and writhes with pleasure. A tawny Labrador-mutt mix, Jake is almost eleven years old, but still convinced he’s a pup.

“Jake, cushion,” Brandy says, then strokes his coat as he obediently heads for his giant pillow by the patio door. She returns her focus to me. “Why aren’t you still at Devlin’s having wild make-up sex? Or do you need more clothes? I was assuming clothes really weren’t an issue…”

She trails off with a sly wink, and I roll my eyes. “Cute,” I say, “but I came home to see you. And because Devlin has meetings all day. I mean, the man runs a multi-billion dollar philanthropic outfit. You’d think he could shift his schedule, right?”

“It’s a screwed-up world.”

“It really is.” I sniff the air. “If those are muffins, then you can have the honor of lifting my spirits.”

She shakes her head in mock exasperation. “You’re practically walking on air. Whether he has a meeting or not, your spirits are just fine.”

“Yeah,” I admit, following her to the kitchen, “they are. And they’ll be better when you pass me one of those.” Brandy is a whiz in the kitchen. And at the sewing machine, too. She’s carving out a solid career with BB Bags, the business she started on Etsy to sell her oiled canvas totes and purses.

Now, she’s in several local boutiques, not to mention some seriously trendy shops in Los Angeles. But I swear she could have just as easily opened a bakery and have a line out the door every day. She’s tall and thin, and I swear she can eat everything she bakes and never see it on her hips. Me, I’m only five feet, five inches, and I’m risking a new jean size every time I indulge. But it’s a risk worth taking.

“Banana nut,” she says going around the counter to put one on a plate for me. “Pretty basic. Sorry.”

“Are you insane? That sounds incredible.” It’s still hot from the oven, and I peel the paper off, careful not to burn my fingers.

“So?” She starts to peel her own muffin. “What they’re saying is true? It all worked out? You and Devlin are back together, even though you’re not at his place this very minute having make-up sex?”

“Trust me,” I say. “There has been much make-up sex. And Back Together sex. And He’s Just So Hot and Tempting sex.”

“That’s a lot of sex for less than twenty-four hours,” she notes.

I make an innocent face. “You think so? Because if it wasn’t for those meetings, I could have gone on and on and on and on and—”

She tosses up a hand, cutting me off. “I get the picture. And I’m very happy for you and your still-unsatisfied libido.”

I’m about to ask about the new guy she’s been seeing, Christopher, and the state of her libido, but something she said earlier strikes me. “What did you mean by they’re saying? Who’s saying what?”

She’s just taken a huge bite, and now she hurries to chew and swallow as she aims a duh look my way. “The tabloid chasers. The Insta-hounds. The Tweeters.” I must look blank, because she rushes on. “You didn’t see them here? Or outside of Devlin’s place? I figured you had to run the gauntlet to get to the front door.”

I shake my head, and she gapes at me as if amazed at my cluelessness. Then she pulls out her phone. She taps a bit, then passes it to me so I can scroll through a gazillion hashtagged images that run the gamut from yesterday—with me rushing out of Brandy’s house and into Devlin’s—to this morning with Devlin kissing me in his doorway less than an hour ago. As I’m looking, another pops up with me right here, shoving my key into the lock, blissfully ignorant of everything around me.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice I was being watched.” I aim a frown toward Brandy. “Some cop, huh?”

“Former cop,” she says, and I’m about to point out that a reporter should keep a watchful eye, too, when she continues. “And to be fair, it’s not like they’re obvious.”

She goes to the small kitchen window that faces the front yard. “That green Toyota’s been there since before you left yesterday. And the driver’s so slunk down he’s totally hidden. See?” she asks as I slide off my stool and come up behind her. “And that red Subaru was gone for a while. I think it must have followed you to Devlin’s last night, then come back today. But it’s not like either of those cars is out of place. The street is packed.”

She’s right about that. Some of the neighborhoods lower in the hills have parking that is only reserved for the residents. This street is far enough away from the Arts District that the city assumes the tourists won’t be a pain and monopolize the street parking. They might be right, but whether it’s locals or tourists, there’s rarely a curbside spot in this neighborhood, and the various vehicles just fade into the scenery.

I head back to my stool, still carrying Brandy’s phone. There are a zillion comments on the various posts, and I’m not inclined to read through them all. Instead, I slide the phone back across the counter to her. “So what’s the consensus?”

“Well, yesterday it was that you were storming over there to give him a piece of your mind—and no, there wasn’t any speculation about what exactly you were pissed about. But now it’s turned around, and everyone’s saying how you two are back together. Most folks think that’s great, but there’s a lot of damn, the hottie is off the market chatter, too. So those folks think you’re a dream-crushing slut-puppy.”

“Fame is a fickle bitch,” I say, making her laugh since we both know that the spotlight is the last place I want to be. “Still, it could be worse,” I continue. “Considering who Devlin is, they could be getting in our face every time we’re in public. So far, they’ve been pretty invisible. Hell, I didn’t even know anyone was watching us at the track until that picture turned up.”

Early on, there’d been a few snaps here and there of Devlin and me together, but most of the posts said nothing more enticing than that I was a reporter who used to be a Laguna Cortez local, and I was writing an article about the DSF. It wasn’t until Devlin took me on an overnight trip to a desert racetrack that the media started paying attention. We’d made the mistake of sharing a deep, bone-melting kiss on the steps leading up to our trailer. After that, goodbye privacy, hello public eye.

Now I’m the girl who pulled the very eligible and enigmatic Devlin Saint off the market.

And that must have pissed some people off.

I frown, thinking of the mysterious text as I consider that.