Dealing with the paparazzi in LA was the worst part of my life for the last ten years. And then when they turned feral after Ricky’s death? It was straight out of a nightmare.

While I’m not going to trust Lincoln blindly, the smartest thing I can do right now is take the protection he offers and keep him at a distance. I don’t want to subject Jackie and Cricket or Karma and her kids to the aggression I’ve endured with the media, and this may be the only way to avoid it.

I lift my chin. “Fine, but I’m only doing this for my family.”

He nods. “I understand. Thank you for letting me help.”

If you would have told me two hours ago that I’d be driving through the front gates of The Gables with Lincoln Riscoff to stay for an extended period of time, I would have asked where the crack you were smoking came from. But here I am, and Jackie, Karma, and the twins will be here shortly too.

The last two times I was here, things didn’t exactly work out well. Maybe there’s some truth to the saying that the third time’s a charm? I’m keeping a healthy dose of skepticism close regardless.

A bellhop comes running when Lincoln pulls his Range Rover under the massive covered entrance to the hotel.

“Mr. Riscoff, welcome. We’ve been expecting you, sir. We have suites prepared for your guests.” He hands Lincoln a white-and-gold envelope. “Here are your keys.”

“Thank you. Make sure you have the day manager show Jackie Gable and her daughter to their suite when they arrive.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already been briefed. We’ll do everything in our power to make sure they have an excellent stay and all their needs are met.”

Lincoln thanks him and then helps me out of the car.

Part of me is grateful for the lengths Lincoln is going to in order to make sure my family is shielded, but I can’t shake the feeling that everyone is watching us as we walk through the lobby of the hotel.

Quit looking for the bad, Whitney. Let’s be positive for a single day.

I can do this. I’m not the same girl who felt completely out of place here ten years ago. I’ve had dinner at the White House. Met the queen of England. Flown in private jets. I may never have felt like I belonged at Ricky Rango’s side, but I sure learned how to fake it. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do now.

“Looks like you’ve done a lot with the place.” I inject humor into my tone as I scan the decor, because it’s clear the gilded interior hasn’t changed, although it doesn’t look like it’s aged either.

Lincoln’s lips quirk with a smile as we step into the elevator. “You know how Riscoffs are. We don’t handle change well.”

I look sideways at him, intending to make some kind of snarky comment, but instead I see him wave a card across the reader and push an unmarked button.