“Thanks,” I say to Lauren, again in my incredibly kind voice. So much goodness is going to come back from the universe, it’s amazing. I’m going to find the most beautiful dress to marry Cooper in, and all the students are going to behave like angels for the rest of the summer.

“You kinda disappeared off the face of the earth for a while there, didn’t you?” Stephanie says as she opens her bottle of water. Her smile is beatific. She clearly Botoxes. Too bad she can’t Botox her personality. Or that vein in her forehead. “So this is what you’re doing now?” she asks, gesturing around the Allingtons’ terrace. “Running a dorm?”

“Residence hall,” I correct her automatically. “But you probably know that already. It’s written at the top of the sign-in log.”

Stephanie looks blank. “The what?”

“The sign-in log,” I say. “You know, the one you’re required to sign whenever Christopher checks you in and out of the building?” I try not to make it sound like I know how many times she’s spent the night here, even though I do, or that I think it’s weird she sleeps over so much in her boyfriend’s parents’ apartment. “It says Fischer Hall is a college residence hall right across the top. You must have noticed that we require your signature and a valid form of photo ID every time you stay, so that if you break a housing regulation while you’re here—such as filming without authorization—we can hold you accountable for your actions.”

Stephanie stares at me across the glass patio table. “You’re serious,” she says in disbelief. “This is really what you do for a living.”

“Why not?” I ask, making my voice light with effort.

“Obviously I heard that your mother took off with all your savings,” she says. “But surely you still earn enough royalties from your songs that—”

I can’t help letting out a snort. Stephanie glances from me to Cooper in bafflement. “What?” she asks.

“You’re a Harvard MBA, Stephanie,” Cooper says, his tone mildly amused. “You should be familiar with how record companies—particularly your employer—cook their books.”

“I still get royalty statements from Cartwright Records claiming they haven’t earned back what they spent on the billboards advertising concerts I gave in Thailand ten years ago,” I explain to her, “so they feel they don’t owe me any money.”

Even in the fairy lights, I can see that Stephanie’s turned a little pink, embarrassed for her employer.

“I see,” she says.

“But things are good,” I hasten to assure her. “As part of the benefits package for working here, I can go to school for free to get my degree—”

“Oh,” Stephanie says knowingly. “So that’s what you’re doing, working here, getting your law degree so you can sue your mom . . . and Cartwright Records too, I presume?”

I put as much confidence as I can into the smile I give her.

“Not exactly,” I say.

The truth is that I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree. When everyone else my age was going to college, I was singing to packed malls and sold-out sports arenas.

I could still sue Cartwright Records, of course, but I’ve been assured by various legal experts that such a suit would take years, cost more than I’d ever win, and likely result only in a bad case of acid reflux . . . my own. Same thing with going after my mom.

“I’ve got . . . different priorities,” I explain to her. “Right now I’m taking classes toward a BA in criminal justice.”

“Criminal . . . justice?” she repeats slowly.

“Uh-huh,” I say. The incredulous look on her face is making me rethink my choice of majors. Is there a degree in advanced butt-kicking? If so, I’m signing up for it, and starting with hers.

“Heather Wells,” she says, shaking her head. “Heather Wells is working in a New York College dorm and getting a degree in criminal justice.”

I raise my fist only to have Cooper reach out to grasp it beneath the glass tabletop.

“New York College is lucky to have Heather,” Cooper says calmly, his gaze on Stephanie’s. “And so are the students who live in this residence hall. And I think Christopher might know a thing or two about how good Heather is at mitigating crime and upholding social justice. Don’t you, Chris?”

Christopher looks uncomfortable. “I might have heard a few things,” he mutters.

Stephanie glances curiously at Christopher. “Christopher, what on earth is he talking about?”

“In fact,” Cooper goes on, giving my hand a comforting squeeze, “it’s lucky for you, Stephanie, that it was Heather, and not someone else, who found you up here. She’s very good in a crisis. That’s one of the many reasons I’m marrying her.”

Chapter 5

Candy Man
I like candy
I’m a candy kind of girl
If you’ve got candy
Wanna give this girl a whirl?
I like candy
I eat it all I can
If you’ve got candy
Wanna be my candy man?

“Candy Man”
Written by Weinberger/Trace
Candy Man album
Cartwright Records
Fourteen consecutive weeks
in the Top 10 Billboard Hot 100
I stare at Cooper from across the Allingtons’ table. He’s just told someone that we’re getting married. He’s never admitted this out loud before to anyone. It’s supposed to be a secret. And now he’s announced it to the producer of his brother’s reality TV show.

What is he thinking?

Christopher Allington and Stephanie Brewer look about as shocked as I am.

“Fiancée, huh?” Christopher finds his voice first. “Wow. That’s great.”

His expression indicates that what he actually means is, Your funeral, buddy.

Stephanie can barely formulate a sentence.

“I . . . I had no idea. I thought . . . I understood you were friends, but I never imagined—”

“I believe the word you’re searching for, Ms. Brewer,” Cooper says, giving my hand a final squeeze before letting it go, “is ‘congratulations.’ ”

“Oh, of course,” Stephanie says. She smiles, but the gesture is more like a snarl. “It’s so great.”