“A marketing genius, an advertising savant.” She waves her hand in a circle expectantly. “The best sister I could ever hope for?”

She points at me, placated for now. “That’s right. And you know that my ideas for your previous commercial increased your business . . . by how much?”

“Sixteen percent in sixty days.” Those facts I know like the back of my hand.

If smug were a Mrs. Potato Head expression, I basically just plugged it into Amy’s face. “So now, you want to reach a new demographic. That needs different strategies. Now, say the lines and smile like the hot chunk of cuteness you know you are, get all the guys wanting to be you and all the women wanting to screw you, and then you can be a good Boy Scout and take their money for life insurance.”

My face contorts in disgust.

She’s not wrong, but she makes what I do and who I am sound so sleazy. The truth is, I really do help people set up their estates, including their life insurance needs, so they can take care of their families after they die. It’s not scammy in the slightest, and I’m proud of what I do, especially since I’m damn good at it.

“Tick-tock,” the cameraman adds quietly.

Amy narrows her eyes, shutting him up. “Quit wasting time.” She makes it sound like I fucked up on purpose, but it was an honest mistake.

I do the lines again, this time smiling at the close like I’m supposed to.

“That’s a wrap,” Amy says. “Guess we’ll see you on Sunday?”

“You know it.”

I’m almost clear, ready to call another Uber when Amy tells me, “Get in the car.” She points at her white sedan.

“No, thanks. I’m good.” I don’t risk explaining that a thirty-minute drive back to town where I’m a captive audience for her interrogation is against the Geneva Convention’s guidelines on cruel and unusual punishment.

“You really okay, Frosted Blakes? From the accident?” Worry mars her forehead, concern filling her eyes.

I nod, smiling easily to reassure her. “Yeah. I’m good. Just gotta deal with the insurance stuff. Those guys are so fucking annoying.”

Luckily, her answering laugh means I’m off the hook and is enough to get me through a ride home and into my soaker tub. I don’t realize how sore I am until the hot water starts to soak into my bones.

But as I relax, there’s one part getting harder as I think of Zoey Walker.

* * *

“What do you mean, I’ll have to wait for the paperwork to process before I can fix my car? That’s not how this works.”

The lady on the phone sounds bored and couldn’t possibly care less. “Sorry. Paperwork . . . process . . . blah-blah-blah.”