“You are very funny and smart. You also have a wicked hip check.” He gave her another grin. “I had an imaginary friend, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But mine had a cool name, unlike poor Horatio.”

“Listen, bub. Horatio is incredibly cool.”

“Mine was named Otis.”

“Otis is not a cool name, Jack. It’s sad that you think so. I’m very sorry to tell you this, but Horatio wins this round.”

“Says you.”

“Did Otis serve a purpose?”

“Absolutely. Whenever I got into trouble, I’d tell my parents that Otis had done it. And that he talked to me at night. Totally freaked out my sisters. They thought either our house was haunted or I was possessed.”

“And are you?”

He laughed, and the sound caused her stomach to pull in a wonderful, warm ache. “I don’t think so. Not anymore, at any rate.”

“Emmaline?” came a woman’s voice. “Oh, my God! Is it really you?”

Em looked up. “Uh...hi!”

The woman, who was thin as a whippet and had very long hair, gave her a disbelieving look. “You don’t remember me?” She swept some hair around to the front and began stroking the ends.

“I’m sorry. The light isn’t very good here.”

“It’s me! Lyric! Lyric Adams? We went to school together!”

Oh, yes. Em finished her wine and got to her feet. She remembered Lyric, all right. The meanest of the mean kids. “Hi.”

“Wow! You look...uh, great!” Lyric said.

“And you look very, uh, good,” Emmaline said. Lyric had had a little work done, as the saying went. Or, more precisely, a lot. Weirdly inflated lips—the famous trout pout—huge br**sts exploding out of her tiny, underfed rib cage and a much thinner nose than she’d sported as a kid.

“I know!” Lyric said, her voice taking on a different tone. “I work out with this amazing trainer? And Pilates four times a week. No gluten, no meat, no dairy, plus these cleanses? You should try them! Wheatgrass and fish oil. Amazing.”

“I’ll have to pass,” Em said.

“OMG! You don’t stutter anymore! I barely recognize your voice. Remember how bad you sounded? ‘H-h-hi, I’m Eh-eh-eh-maline.’ It took you forever to get a sentence out!” She laughed merrily, her mouth barely moving, courtesy of whatever toxin she’d had injected.

“This is my friend Jack,” Emmaline said, trying to ignore the burn in her cheeks. Lyric had been a piranha at age twelve. No reason to think she’d gotten any nicer.

Jack stood up. “Jack Holland,” he said, putting his arm around Emmaline. “Em’s fiancé.”

“Hi!” Lyric said. “I’m Lyric, Lyric Adams-Rabinowitz. And yes, my father is that Travis Adams. I’m an old friend of Em’s.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Jack said.

The comment went right over Lyric’s head. “So you probably heard what I’m up to these days,” she said. “My baby clothing line? Totally adorbs. Beyoncé’s daughter? She wore one of my outfits. And North West? Same. Can you even believe it? So, are you guys visiting? Wait, wait, oh, my God! You’re here for Kevin and Naomi’s wedding, aren’t you? Oh, my God! So am I!”

Em’s toes dug into the sand. Kevin had been bullied by Lyric, too, and, yes, he and Naomi had moved back to Malibu, but still. The idea that Lyric had been forgiven was...wrong, somehow. Em’s teeth ached, which meant she was clenching her jaw again.

Lyric was still talking. “My husband? You can meet him. Not to brag, but he’s a real estate mobile, and he made eight figures last year.”

“I think you meant mogul,” Jack said.

“Excuse me?”

“Mogul. You said mobile. You meant mogul, as in tycoon. Not mobile, as in something that can be moved. I’m guessing your mobile didn’t marry you for your beautiful mind.”

Emmaline bit down on a smile.

“Whatever. So you and Kevin were together for a long time, right, Emmaline? This must be so hard for you.”

“We were together for a long time, yes.”

“And what do you do now?”

“I’m a cop.”

“You are? Why?”

“To protect and serve the good people of Manningsport, New York.”

“Oops! My phone’s ringing! Gotta go. S-s-see you t-t-tomorrow!” Another whinnying laugh, and Lyric cantered away.

“Holy shit,” Jack said, sounding almost surprised.

“Yeah. She was kind of doomed from the start. Thanks for sticking up for me, by the way.”

“You’re welcome.” He was quiet for a minute, then asked, “You okay, seeing her again?”

Em shrugged. “Sure.”

“You should tell her off.”

“I know her type. It wouldn’t do any good. I’d tell her how miserable she made me, and she’d tell me how much her shoes cost.”

“There was a kid in my class who made fun of Faith once,” Jack said. “She had a seizure at church, and he did an impression of her. I beat the living snot out of him, right there at Sunday school.” He paused. “Too bad I wasn’t your brother.”

I have no interest in you being my brother, Jack. “Well, we should get back.”

“Whatever you say, Officer Neal.”

His phone chirped, and he took it from his pocket. She saw the name Hadley on the screen.

“So how is it really, having your wife back in town?” she asked.

“Ex-wife,” he said.

“Right. And how is it?”

“It’s fine.” His tone, which had been warm and edged with a smile for most of the night, was cool and formal. She understood. The topic was off-limits.

Then again, Emmaline was a police officer, and cops liked answers.

“You still love her?”

“I’d rather not talk about Hadley.”

Yes, in other words.

They picked up the blankets and headed back up the hill to the ranch.

She’d do well to remember he was here as a favor. Jack, like a lot of men, loved a woman in distress. While Em appreciated that, she didn’t like being in distress (though she was aware that this whole ridiculous wedding was distress inducing).

His ex-wife, the tiny and beautiful and vulnerable Hadley...she’d be dying to be rescued. Em would bet her front teeth (which had once been knocked out in a hockey match and had been very expensive to fix) that Hadley had put a great deal of thought and strategy into her return to Manningsport and would need to be rescued. Often.

Besides, Em wasn’t the type to fight for a man. She’d tried that once and lost.

Not that Jack was even interested in her. That kiss had been a coping strategy and nothing else.

The walk back to Rancho de la Luna was quiet.

In thirty-six hours, she’d be on her way home. Hopefully, there’d be a crime spree in Manningsport, and she could go back to doing what she knew how to do.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SO HERE’S THE THING.

If you’re going to your ex-fiancé’s wedding, and he’s marrying a woman who has twice been featured on the cover of Fitness magazine, you do try to look good. You do strange and exotic things like blow-dry your hair, even without the magic goop from Sicily, and when it comes out looking as if you’ve electrocuted yourself, you pounce upon a maid and beg her to find you something—anything—you can use, the end result of which is an industrial-size can of Aqua Net and hair that might shatter if you hit your head. You wrestle yourself into Spanx, hating yourself for caving to the societal pressures of this type of undergarment. You attempt makeup, then get mascara in the white of your eye, then try for ten minutes to get it out, then end up looking like you’ve been crying all night. You push your innocent feet into heels that look like something invented by the Holy Roman Inquisitor. You put the raw chicken br**sts back in your bra.