Cat’s lips curved in the slightest hint of a smile. It wasn’t that long ago that they had no idea who she was. Sure, they’d snapped a few pictures on her way in because she dressed nicely enough to be “someone.” But now they knew her name. It was a reminder of how far she’d come in the last few years. It was this side of five years ago that she and her brother had been desperate to save the family business, and now strangers with cameras clamored for her picture.

“Who are you meeting, Cat?”

“Where’d you get the boots, gorgeous?”

“Smile pretty for me, baby.”

“Sorry, gentlemen,” she said with an apologetic grin. “Running late!”

Their comments followed her inside as the hostess stood stalwart guardian between the restaurant’s diners and those outside wanting a piece of them.

“Catalina, lovely to have you with us again,” the hostess offered the perfunctory celebrity greeting.

“Thank you. I’ve been dreaming about your kale salad all day.” It was a lie. Cat had been fantasizing about Courtyard’s very thick, very juicy bacon cheeseburger. But there was a price to pay to look the way she looked on camera. The days of eating whatever she wanted and drinking as much as she could were tapering off. Thirty-two meant making more good choices than bad, a sacrifice that she was constantly reminding herself was worth it in the long run.

Her heels clicked on the tile floor as the hostess led her back into the restaurant and heads turned in her direction. She was used to it by now… mostly. Dark bamboo lined the walls and kitschy chandeliers threw off dim pools of light. High backed tufted leather booths offered diners a modicum of privacy. Or, for those who preferred to be seen, there was a selection of high-top tables clustered around the sleek bar.

The hostess led her to a booth under a folksy painting of a rooster.

“Catalina King, you always know how to make an entrance,” her agent Marta sighed. She rose and gave Cat a kiss on each cheek.

“You should talk,” Cat teased, taking in Marta’s curve-hugging white dress and glossy black hair. The former Mexican soap star turned producer’s ex-wife had carved out a very profitable niche as a fierce agent to Broadway stars and TV talent. Her cavernous three-bedroom Upper West Side apartment and Bentley were proof of a never-quit work ethic.

They slid into the booth, and Cat ordered a flat water.

“First thing first,” Marta said, her accent lightly tinging her words. “How’s it working out with Henry?”