There. I did it. I reach for my coffee, then decide I’ll probably choke again, so I put it down and pick up a silver fork to play with.

“I… Raven, are you sure?” He sounds sad, but not as sad as I anticipated. Again, I wonder if he’s secretly as relieved as I am.

“Positive. You’re amazing, Brody, you really are.”

“I’ll always be there for you. All you need to do is ask.” He blows out some air. “Wow, okay. Well, my dad is going to be disappointed.” He laughs, but it’s forced. “Honestly, you were always out of my league, Raven.”

“Brody, that’s not true.” Great, I feel like crap.

“It’s true, and you know it. And if I’m honest, I need to work on my head. I’m kind of confused about stuff.” He sighs. “I’m gonna go. Take care, Raven.”

“Okay, bye, Brody.” But he’s already hung up.

Grabbing my coffee, I walk to the edge of the balcony and toss it over, then sit and pour a fresh cup. I pull my legs up and let Jett’s scent lull me into a better frame of mind. Leaning forward, I grab a croissant. A light knock makes me stuff my mouth with half the buttery deliciousness before I go to answer it.

“Yes?” I clear my throat as I swallow and peek out again. The driver, Iain, stands with three black lacquer boxes.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours for you.” When he hands them to me, I smile at him, but he doesn’t return it. Hmm, maybe he likes my mom, but he’d have to be actually insane. She doesn’t discriminate when it comes to who she’s a bitch to.

It’s pretty much everyone, unless she thinks she needs you. Which is why Maria has always had job security. She needed Maria to raise me, and Maria is smart enough to never let her forget it.

“Thank you,” I say to his back. Whatever, he doesn’t have to like me.

Kicking the door shut, I bring my boxes out onto the balcony and set them on the lounger. I stuff the rest of the croissant into my mouth, wipe my hands, and open the small box first.

It’s lipstick. Red. Yves Saint Laurent. I think I already have it, but it says special edition so… maybe not.

I flip open the next box and gasp. Fucking Jimmy Choo heeled sandals covered in crystals that wrap up the ankle, literally to die for. My fingers caress the hundreds of tiny crystals and I check the size: thirty-six. He had to have looked at my boots. How else would he know?