I’m almost done with a chorus when another woman walks through the sliding glass doors in a black bikini and a turquoise blue caftan. Her face is shaded by a big floppy hat and large sunglasses.

I try to refocus on the paper, but my concentration slips again when she takes the chair directly next to mine.

She smiles and sets herself up, slathering her already golden-brown skin with sunscreen, and then pulls out a gossip magazine.

As soon as I see the cover, I cringe.

It must be a new one because the headline says Was Ricky Rango Really a Billionaire’s Heir? The picture is Ricky onstage, overlaid on top of a photo of the Riscoff estate.

It’s not a crappy gossip magazine either. It’s one of the glossy ones I used to avoid looking at when I went through the checkout aisle at the grocery store. The story is too juicy for anyone to pass up.

As she flips the pages, my concentration and creativity dwindle to nothing.

Not focusing on the clouds.

I tuck my paper under my towel, ditch my sunglasses, and decide to go for a dip in the pool, carefully keeping my back to her and hoping like hell there are no pictures of me in that magazine.

I slip under the surface of the pool and push off the concrete with the soles of my feet, shooting forward underwater, my arms pulling me through. I try to make it all the way to the other end of the pool, but my lungs burn far too soon. Probably because it’s been years since I last swam with any regularity. Regardless, when I resurface, I’m far enough away from her now. I let my body go limp and float to the surface, arching my back and soaking up the sun on my face.

I stay in the water, alternating between idly swimming laps and floating on my back, until my fingertips prune. With a glance toward my chair, I see the woman is still there, flipping through her magazine as she basks in the sun.

I pull myself out of the pool, letting the water stream off me, and grab a rolled towel from the rack near the stairs. After wrapping it around myself, I keep my face averted as I return to my seat and snatch up my glasses to put them back on before she can get a good look at my face.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” she says when I settle back onto the lounge chair.

“Definitely.”

She must take my reply as an indication that I want to talk, because she launches into a conversation. “I love coming to places like this. It always feels so decadent when it’s exclusive.”

“Mm-hmm.” I try to stop the chattiness, but she can’t take the hint.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“All over,” I tell her, because I have no intention of telling her the truth.

“Ah, a citizen of the world. That’s so fortunate. I’m a born-and-bred Cali girl myself. It gets so stifling in the city, though. Everyone trying to outdo everyone else. It’s nice to get out of there and appreciate different scenery.”