“But,” Jordan says.

“You know what your father’s going to say, Jordan,” Stephanie reminds him.

Jordan looks down at his shoes. “Oh,” he says. “Okay. Yeah.”

“But don’t worry,” Stephanie says. “We’ll get her another bodyguard.”

“Sure,” Jordan says. He continues to stare at his shoes. They’re some kind of trainers, huge and black with colorful neon swoops on the sides. “Of course.”

Something is clearly bothering him. Whatever it is, he doesn’t mention it out loud. He just stands there, staring down at the swoops on his shoes.

“Hey, buddy,” Cooper says, noticing the same thing I am. “Everything all right?”

Jordan glances up, then smiles his sweet, dumb smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t it be? I got my own TV show, dawg. It’s all good.” Then, as if really seeing the two of us for the first time, he asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, “Hey, are you two together or something?”

Christopher, to whom Cooper announced that we’re engaged, glances at Jordan oddly, but before he can open his mouth to speak, Cooper says, “What would make you think that, Jordan?”

“I don’t know,” Jordan says, with a shrug. “You just look . . . together. But I know my big brother Coop would never scam on my best girl.” Jordan grins at Cooper, then raises his fist and gives him a mock punch in the shoulder.

There’s an uncomfortable silence until finally Cooper asks Jordan the obvious question. “Isn’t Tania your best girl? She’s your wife.”

“Well, yeah,” Jordan says, lowering his fist. “But Heather was my first.”

“Jordan, we were never married,” I remind him, keeping the frustration from my voice with difficulty.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember what I ever saw in Jordan. Except that he was cute and could be very sweet and affectionate when we were alone together, a lot like Tania’s Chihuahua.

“And even if we were married,” I say, “we’re broken up now. So does that mean I can’t go out with anyone else?”

Jordan looks confused. “No,” he says. “You can go out with whoever you want to . . . except him.” He points at Cooper. “Because that would be like incest.”

Fortunately Lauren, the production assistant, pokes her head through the French doors and calls, tapping on her headset, “Car’s ready downstairs.”

“Oops,” Jordan says. “Gotta go. Call me.” He gives me a quick kiss on the top of the head, faux-punches Cooper in the shoulder again, then turns around to jog back into the Allingtons’ apartment to collect his wife and her tiny dog.

When I glance at Stephanie and Christopher, I see both of them staring at Cooper and me, Stephanie with an expression that reminds me of Owen the cat when he is scheming a way to get more half-and-half out of one of us.

Cooper must have noticed Stephanie’s expression too, since the next words out of his mouth are, “May I remind you that if either Jordan or Tania hears a single word about the two of us being engaged, I’ll know it came from one of you, and I’ll make certain that stories I’m pretty sure you want kept out of the press show up exactly where you least want them to. Understand?”

The smile vanishes from Stephanie’s face. “What stories?”

“I understand,” Christopher says quickly.

Stephanie glances at him, horrified. “He’s talking about you? My God, I thought he meant some deep dark secret from the Cartwright family that could hurt the show. But he means you? What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Christopher says, taking her arm and steering her away from us. “It was stupid.”

“But—”

“Just drop it.”

“So,” I say to Cooper as they walk away, arguing in whispers. “That went well.”

Cooper smiles, then glances at his watch. “I think the ball game is probably still on. If we walk fast, I can catch the last inning.”

“By all means, then,” I say. “Let us walk fast.”

On our walk home—after making sure everyone involved with CRT is signed out of the building—I can’t help dragging my feet a little, thinking back to the way Jordan kept staring down at his shoes. There was something he’d wanted to say, I’m sure of it. He’d either lacked the mental capacity or been too frightened to utter whatever it was out loud.

It’s possible I’m projecting, though. We learned about projecting last week in my Psych 101 class. Projecting is when a person ascribes feelings or emotions that she herself is experiencing onto others as a psychological defense mechanism.

God knows I have reason to be frightened of the Allingtons’ terrace, so I could be imagining the fear. Whatever it was Jordan had to say, it must not have been that important. Because if it was, wouldn’t he have figured out how to say it?

Assuming this turns out to be my first mistake. Well, maybe my second. My first mistake was coming over to the building that night to begin with.

“You know,” I say as Cooper and I are walking up the steps to the front door of what he now insists I call “our” brownstone, “for a guy who isn’t that close with his little brother, you sure raced into the Allingtons’ apartment pretty fast when you heard his voice. You practically ran Christopher Allington over.”

Cooper is digging around in his pocket for his keys. “Yeah?” His tone is uninterested. “Well, Christopher Allington has a history of being a douchebag. I tend to use extra caution when dealing with known douchebags.”

“That’s probably wise,” I say. “Is that why you were asking so many questions?”

“Heather, need I remind you that a man got shot?” He’s found his key chain and hits the clicker on it that remotely deactivates the brownstone’s alarm system. I hear the control panel inside the door beep, giving us the all clear. Only then does Cooper begin undoing the lock. “I might even stop by the hospital when Mr. Bear is feeling better and ask him a few questions. But that doesn’t mean I’m getting involved in the mess that is my brother Jordan’s life.”

“What does it mean then?” I ask. “Because it sounds like you are getting involved. And you told me I have to stay out of the amateur sleuthing business.”