“You’re getting soft in your old age, Ellie. If we were still at Berkeley, you’d have been all over that just to break her heart. So who was it?”

I cringed at her description, but only because she was right. I’d been the source of pain for most of the people I’d come into contact with, mostly because I didn’t care, but a small part of me enjoyed the temporary distraction from my own pain.

“Do you always have to remind me of my dysfunction?”

“Yes. Don’t change the subject.”

“He’s an Interagency Hotshot guy.”

“A firefighter? Ick.”

“No, not ick. He’s the elite. They deploy them like soldiers to the frontline.”

“That’s kind of hot,” she conceded.

“He was refreshing … let me wipe him off and send him on his way without blinking an eye. And he was hot. So, so hot. Maybe a ten.”

“A ten? Like a solid ten, or barely a ten?”

“Mid-ten. He missed the trashcan when he tossed the condom, but he can fight. Like really fight. He beat a guy’s ass twice his size in the middle of the gallery last night. He’s built like David Beckham. Maybe a little thicker. He’s covered in tattoos, and he smells like Marlboro Reds and copper.”

“Copper?”

“He had the other guy’s blood splattered on his clothes.”

“You let them fight in the gallery last night? Was anything broken?”

“The better question is what didn’t get broken.”

“Ellie.” Her tone turned serious. “Mother is going to flip.”

“Do not parent me from Brazil. I already have two absentee parents. I don’t need you.”

“Fine, it’s your funeral. Or rather, your trust fund’s funeral. I’m intrigued about the boy. I might get on a plane and cover up my wax and pedi with leggings and boots. Oh.” She paused. “Marco? I need flannel shirts!”

“Don’t bring Marco,” I warned.

“He comes with me everywhere. His speaking Portuguese has made the trip here a breeze.”

“He’s not coming here. You’re different when he’s around.”

“What? Like helpless?” Finley was teasing, but we both knew she was whinier and needier when her ladysitter was around. Marco was hired to be more than an assistant. He didn’t just carry bags and keep her schedule; he was also her buyer, stylist, barista, bartender, nurse, waiter, designer, and constant travel companion.

“I hate Finley and Marco. I only like Finley.”

“Correction: you love Finley. I’m bringing Marco.”

“Then he can’t stay here.”

I could hear her pouting through the speakers. “I’ll get him a hotel room. If I need something, I can call.”

“Finley, Jesus Christ.” I pulled a stale pack of cigarettes out of my father’s console and dug around for a lighter. I flipped up the silver cap and pressed, promptly taking a drag.

“Where are you going?” she asked, frustrated.