“Why do I feel like there’s a story that you’re not sure whether to tell me or not?”

I chuckle. It’s laced with a warning—don’t push too hard.

“She seemed like a nice one,” Fish says, picking up on my hesitation. “And hot.”

Palmer is hot. But hearing Fish say it, hearing Fish state the obvious about her, grinds something deep inside me. I’m not worried about Fish; he’s committed to his girlfriend, Nicole. But it reminds me that every man Palmer sees undoubtedly thinks about her like that. They undress her with their eyes. I wonder how many of them try to manipulate her to their advantage.

I ball my fist at my side.

“Have you spent much time with her?” he asks—pushing.

My first instinct is to lie to him, to put some distance between him and what’s happening between Palmer and me. But it instantly feels wrong to deny the truth. I don’t want to.

Maybe because I don’t know how to juggle this wobbly intensity inside me now.

“Fish . . .” I wince, knowing this might backfire if he’s in the wrong mood. “I need you to be serious for a minute, okay?”

“Ooh. Yeah. Serious. Got it.” He pauses. “This is going to be good, isn’t it?”

“Forget it—”

“Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I’m done. I swear. Talk to me, Beck.”

This is a mistake.

I run a hand over my face and sigh. My shoulder tenses. I vaguely remember it screaming when I tossed Palmer on the bed. But even with the flames in my rotator cuff, I still smile at the memory.

“This is all hypothetical,” I say.

“Sure.”

“I mean it. I don’t want you jumping to conclusions or asking a bunch of questions. Just take it for what it is and respond.”

“Okay. Go.”

“All right.” I take a deep, steadying breath. But as I exhale, I change my mind. I don’t want to talk about Palmer. Yet. Not when I can still taste her. “I . . . I don’t know what there really is for me in California.”

The words topple out of my mouth in rapid succession. It’s like if they don’t slip out fast enough, I’ll change my mind.

It’s probably true because the sound of those particular words in my specific voice is almost too foreign to be true.

“I get that . . .” Fish leaves his thought there.

“But there’s not a lot for me anywhere else, really.”

I don’t expound on the subject because I’m not sure what direction to take it. Luckily, Fish helps me out.

“Well, if you take one of the deals Scott has for you, that’ll help you decide, right?” he asks. “I mean, if you have to be in a studio or in a press box, then you can kind of go from there.”