She laughed. “Yeah, Dante loves it.” She looked down at the small dog, who was peering at Shelby. Shelby was at least three times his size, but he didn’t inch away, instead just standing there, watching to see what she would do. Dante finally walked to Shelby and nipped at her before taking off. Shelby looked at me for a moment and then turned to chase him.

Emma laughed. “I think they like each other,” she said.

We sat down on the bench and watched the dogs playing for a few moments. There was something so normal about it, two wealthy women meeting each other in this carefully manicured dog park and watching their dogs play together.

Except one of us wasn’t wealthy and was a complete and utter fraud. Part of me was appalled by the amount of information I knew about her and the fact that she would probably lose it if she knew that I had her lover’s cell phone in my drawer at home at that very moment. That I knew her neighbors didn’t like her very much, or that I’d come here today just to see her again.

“Chris?”

“Oh, sorry,” I said, turning to her. “What did you say?”

“I asked how long you and your husband have lived in the area.”

“A year,” I said, the lie slipping easily from my lips.

“What does he do?” she asked. “Is he an artist too?”

“He is, but he’s also a swim coach,” I said, and then because I’d gotten so used to saying it over the past year, I continued without thinking. “He was a swim coach.”

She sat there expectantly, waiting for me to continue, and I wanted to kick myself for oversharing. She didn’t need to know too much about my real life. I spoke slowly, measuring my words.

“He was in an accident about a year ago,” I said. “He isn’t able to swim anymore.”

I stopped, hoping she would let the conversation drop, but she held my gaze and nodded. “That must be very hard on both of you,” she said. “I took care of my mother after her stroke a few years ago, so I know what it’s like to see someone you love in pain.”

It was a kind and oddly personal moment, and I could only smile and thank her before changing the subject.

“You said the other day that you were looking for some portraits,” I said. “So, would that just be you or other people?”

Her eyes widened, and she laughed. “Oh, no, you must think I’m horribly vain,” she said. “I don’t want portraits of myself. I want them of some of the models in our show that’s coming up.”

I frowned, and she shook her head.

“Sorry, let me start over,” she said. “We have a family business—a clothing line called Allure Apparel. Have you heard of it?”