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“I owe you an apology,” she says.
Color me surprised. She’s apologized to me before—we dated for nearly five years, so we both have eaten our share of crow, but if I’m recalling correctly, she’s never apologized voluntarily…or before I did.
“For?” I ask.
“Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “For walking into this house and crying on your shirt. For accusing you of ruining my dress. It was lame. I was jet-lagged and fragile.”
I was right about the jet lag.
“How’s the dress?” I ask instead of asking how she is. I can see how she is. A hell of a lot better than she was that afternoon.
“It’s dry-clean-only and I’m not going out in the world alone unless I absolutely have to. Plus, I already returned my rental car.”
“Worried you’ll run into more rabid fans like Tommy?” I tease.
Her smile falters and her gaze hits the floor. “Worse. Much worse.”
She reaches for the laptop sitting on the island between us. Julieann has the same one. She hasn’t stopped crowing about her “rose gold MacBook.” Not pink, let’s be clear about that. Rose gold.
Allie pops the lid, types a few keys, and then turns the laptop to face me. A headline, black and bold, reads HOLLYWOOD’S MOST HATED. Her photo is at the top.
“I’m number one. Go me.”
I scroll down, reading the section about her. It’s unflattering. Every word of it.
“ ‘Is America’s Sweetheart desperately in need of treatment, or has her ugly side finally surfaced?’ ” she recites as I silently read the same sentence. “They hate me. Which is why I’m here and not at home. By the way, I forgot how many clouds there are in Ohio.”
I blink at her, thrown by the sudden change of topic.
“Mini…Allie.”
“It’s Nina,” she corrects, but her mouth jaunts at a playful slant. “One of Hollywood’s Most Hated.”
“It’s bullshit. This.” I shake my head and close her laptop. I don’t know what else to say about it, but I give it a shot. “You think this matters because you live in a fishbowl. But here? It doesn’t matter. You can thank the cloud cover. No one around here cares that some random blog accuses you of being hated.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Did Tommy care?”
Her mouth opens to refute me but she closes it when she realizes she can’t. She spins her glass on the island’s surface.
“Do you care?” she asks, her voice small.
“I don’t like that you’re hurt,” I manage after a pregnant pause. She’s not mine to watch over and hasn’t been for several years. “What about McCormack?”
“What about him?” Her eyes flash with banked anger. Can’t say I don’t like that reaction.
“Last I heard you were going to rehab.” I air-quote the word.
“Yeah. He sandwiched that between telling the world that I was in a jealous rage and breaking up with me. I’m not sure if he wants me to have treatment for my kleptomania or my inability to keep from envying my way into criminal activity.” She rolls her eyes. “Did you know that Millie was filmed giving a statement to the press? She said I was belligerent and drunk at her party. Xavier was at her side wearing a hangdog expression…” Her cheeks redden like she’s too infuriated to continue before she says, “He’s a jerk.”
“Yes. Agree.” Wholeheartedly.
“Thanks.” She peers into her ice-less tea and then back to me. “How much longer will you be working on Mom and Dad’s room?”
“A while.” I don’t owe her a timeline. She wasn’t the one who hired me.
“Well, it’s not easy to sleep in with the remodeling noise,” she says, her mood souring. What’s with her slipping from considerate, easygoing Allie to uptight celebrity Allie? “Why didn’t my parents tell me they hired you?”
