Whenever she felt lonely, or whenever she felt that maybe the time had come to register on eCommitment or Match.com, she found herself staring into her closet at that old soft blue shirt. She’d take it out and sleep in it, and even though the old Kevin was no more, she couldn’t help remembering the boy who’d befriended her when she’d had no one else.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE DRIVE FROM LAX to Rancho de la Luna was not going to be long enough.

Emmaline’s plan was to get to the resort, check in as quickly as possible, then hide in her room, kill half a bottle of wine and fall asleep watching TV.

Jack fell asleep within seconds of getting into the passenger seat of the rental car, though he did run a hand over the hood as they got in. Because, yes, she’d rented a tricked-out Mustang convertible. She wasn’t going to pull up at Rancho de la Luna in an economy car.

She pulled onto the 405, flipped off the driver who laid on his horn behind her and tried to unclench.

Jack didn’t stir. His head was tipped back, blond hair shining in the sun. His sunglasses were on, and he looked like he belonged here in the land of the beautiful people. Faith had been right about her brother; he was a fantastic date. So far, anyway. Cheerful, reassuring, gorgeous. This wasn’t a surprise as much as a concern, because Emmaline could definitely see herself becoming a slutty cliché and sleeping with her wedding date to prove she wasn’t a dried-up, rejected hag.

Inglewood. Culver City. Santa Monica. The familiar names flashed past alongside the speeding cars. It was a bit of culture shock, driving on L.A. highways again, the sunlight glaring and the smell of exhaust all around her.

Yesterday, the five-year-old Cabrera triplets had come up to her in the park to play with Sarge, and they’d all ended up rolling around in the fresh snow and pretending to be snakes (Lucia’s idea). Then all three kids climbed on Em and told her to be a pony, and she crawled around in the snow, whinnying, much to their delight (and Sarge’s).

Twenty minutes in SoCal, and she was already homesick.

Relentless golden sunshine beat down. It was in the mid-sixties, maybe hotter here on the highway. She took the Santa Monica Freeway and headed for the Pacific Coast Highway.

Mom had told her a while ago that Kevin and Naomi had moved back to Malibu. That was before her parents had moved to Stanford to be closer to Angela.

Weird, picturing Kevin back here. In her mind, she saw the chubby, pale boy she’d first met, and a bittersweet ache swelled in her chest.

There was the ocean, glittering blue and calm. The scruffy hills of Southern California formed a wall on the eastern side of the road, the Pacific on the other.

“This is beautiful,” Jack said, sitting up and taking off his sunglasses.

Not to her, it wasn’t. Em had forgotten how dry it could get. Sure, the ocean was gorgeous, a shimmering, sparkling expanse today. But the landscape was scrubby and sandy, unless it had been gardened into an unnaturally lush oasis. Hotels and houses were plopped gracelessly along the highway—anything for a water view.

If she’d had better memories, it probably would’ve looked prettier. After all, Malibu was considered one of the most beautiful places in America.

As they came into the city proper, Em’s heart rate kicked up. Okay, it was beautiful, perfectly kept houses dotting the hills, the yards bursting with gardens. Palm trees and flowering bushes grew in lush clumps.

“Lots of celebrities live out here?” Jack said.

“Oh, yeah. Bruce Willis, Courteney Cox, Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“You ever see anyone famous in town?”

Em smiled at the question. “Sure. A lot of actors stay here if they have an event in Hollywood. Morgan Freeman held the door for me once.”

“Cool.”

She turned off the PCH and headed up toward the ranch. The sun was starting to set, and her stomach grumbled. Despite being fed in first class, she was starving.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” Jack asked.

“I’m hoping to hide in my room and order dinner and drink wine,” she said. “You can do whatever you want.” Then, realizing how rude that sounded, she added, “I mean, see the sights. It’s a beautiful ranch. Used to be a rehab place for the wealthy.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

Don’t tempt me, Jack. She turned onto White Horse Canyon Road. Her heart was twanging with nervousness now. There was the sign—“Welcome to Rancho de la Luna, America’s #1 Luxury Boot Camp.”

“Luxury Boot Camp?” Jack said. “Kind of an oxymoron.”

“It’s like the place on The Biggest Loser,” Em said. “Naomi is a fitness guru.”

“How fun for the rest of us.”

Without warning, Em pulled over onto the side of the road, getting an enraged honk and some curse words from the car behind her. She flipped them off—it was the California way, after all—and looked at Jack. “Okay, here’s the deal. He was fat, she made him her project, they fell in love. My parents think I’m g*y. And did I mention I have a very perfect and beautiful sister?”

“You did.”

“Also, my parents are divorced but still live together and don’t speak directly to each other. They may analyze you. They’re psychologists.”

“Ah. And anything else?”

“I’m probably forgetting something, but for now, no.”

He smiled. “You want to stop and change first?”

She twitched. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “Three sisters. I figured you wouldn’t want to face your ex looking like—”

“Like what, Jack?”

“Like you’ve just flown across the country and forgot your miracle drug for hair.”

“I didn’t bring you along for snark.” She threw the car back in gear. “I’m not one of those people who’s fixated on looks.”

“I can tell.”

“Jack, if you don’t want me to stab you in the neck, shut it. Your publicity team said you were the perfect date. Act like it.”

He grinned. Ah. He was joking. She felt the tug of a small smile. “Sorry,” she said.

Rancho de la Luna—Ranch of the Moon—was gorgeous. White stucco with red clay tile roofs, beautiful plantings, a fountain. Orange and lemon trees were in bloom, competing with the soft white of ornamental pear trees, and the scent of jasmine was thick in the air.

Very romantic.

“Welcome,” said the valet as she pulled up to the huge wooden doors. “Are you here for the Norman-Bates wedding?”

“We sure are,” she said, getting out and handing him the keys. “I’m Janet Leigh, and this is Anthony Perkins.”

“Nice to meet you!” he said, flashing a smile so brilliant Em almost shielded her eyes. “Head on in, and make yourselves at home here at Rancho de la Luna!”

Jack retrieved their bags from the trunk. “Showtime,” he said, reaching for her hand.

“No, no. None of that,” she said. But damn, she was glad he was here, a tall, handsome date. Really, he should start charging. He’d make a fortune.

The lobby of the resort featured Mexican tile floors and clean white walls. Some lurid religious art hung on the walls; Em had read that the place had been modeled after a Spanish mission. She glanced around. Nobody she knew.