“True that.” She sips her coffee. “We should have done happy hour. I could use a shot of bourbon in this. But I guess you’re a no-go on happy hour these days anyway.” She sighs. “I’m so fucked.”

“The whole thing makes no sense. Do they think you can just pluck celebrities off a tree? And aren’t you the talent? Isn’t there someone behind the scenes whose job it is to line up the interviews for you?”

“That’s the way it works once you land the job. Right now, I think it’s all about proving how much I want it. How spunky I am,” she adds with a very non-spunky snarl.

“So we just need to find you one juicy story that gets their attention?”

“I think so.” She shrugs. “I hope so.”

I nod slowly, realizing now why she’d really called when I was in Dallas. And why it had sounded like she had my resume in front of her—because she’d been preparing interview questions.

I reach for another French fry as I consider. Because while I hate the idea of putting the spotlight on Damien and me and the baby, I’m not naive enough to think we can avoid it forever. So maybe it’s better to jump right in and take control of the conversation from the get-go?

I draw a breath, then jump into the deep end. “What about me?” I ask as she lifts a section of club sandwich to her mouth. “Or, actually, what about Damien?” Because goodness knows I’m not that interesting. But Damien has been in the public eye for decades.

She drops the sandwich back to the plate, but her mouth stays open.

“James?”

“Are you serious? An interview with you and Damien? If you mean it, that would be amazing.”

“I mean it,” I say. “And you could have asked when you called me in Dallas.”

She sags, looking a bit sheepish. “I thought about it, obviously. But I know how much you hate interviews, and you were freaked about your mom, and—look, Nicholas, are you sure?”

“Totally. I’d rather do an interview with you than have rumors floating around out there.”

“And Damien?”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, and she just nods. We both know that if I ask him, he’ll do the interview.

“We’ll do it on the red carpet,” she says.

“And you’ll keep it short?”

“Hey, it’s fine by me,” she says. “I figure short is one hell of a lot more than any other reporter will get, right?”

I laugh. “Only you, James,” I promise. “Only you.”

She thrusts her hand across the table. “Pinkie swear,” she says. “Best friends forever, and we’ll always have each other’s backs.”

“Always,” I agree. “And you’ll get the job, James. You’re awesome, so how could you not?”

“Speaking of awesome and jobs, what happened at your interview? Any word yet?”

“I got it.” Just saying the words makes me giddy all over again. “I found out this morning, actually.”

“Ha! That’s fabulous! And damn, but we are an awesome pair.”

“I’m just hoping I can survive morning sickness, stay awake long enough to finish interviewing possible new employees, and get everything done on time and on budget.” I bite my lower lip. “This is a make or break project, James. Am I allowed to say I’m nervous?”

“Welcome to the club,” she says. “You’re also going to totally nail it. I’ve got your back. Damien’s got your back. Seriously, you’re swimming in a sea of well wishes.”

“And a few sharks,” I say.

Her brow furrows, but before she has the chance to ask what I’m talking about, I open my phone to my messaging app and pass it to her. “I figure they’re from somebody who’s pissed off I got the job and they didn’t. Or pissed that I was even invited to interview, because the first text came before the offer came in.”

I watch as Jamie scrolls through the three messages. “Maybe Ryan can trace them?” Jamie’s husband is the head of security for Stark International.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “We were talking about that once when we were watching some really bad action movie. He said it’s seriously hard to trace a text message. And odds are good this is coming from a burner phone, too.”

“I hate not knowing who it is,” I admit.

“Oh, please. I know. It’s some dickless wonder who thinks he’s all that, and that a gorgeous woman with a rich husband can’t have a brain. Fuck him.”

I can’t help but smile. As far as I’m concerned, Jamie’s assessment is dead-on perfect.

“What makes you think you can handle it?” she says, quoting the first text. “It.” She repeats. “Huh.”

“What?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Probably nothing. It’s just that you said the first one came before you got the job. Did it come before you fainted, too?”

I frown. “No, it was after my interview, actually. Why?”

“It’s just that the rumors that you were pregnant had started by then. So maybe it doesn’t mean the job. Maybe it means the baby.”

“I thought of that.” I press my hand over my belly. “And Giselle’s here.”

“What?” Jamie turns in her seat. “Where?”

“No, in LA. I saw her at the Tower this morning. She had a meeting with Damien.”

“No shit? I bet she’s got a serious grudge going. What did Damien say? Does he think she sent the messages?”

I pick up a sugar packet and start fiddling with it. “I haven’t told him about the messages yet,” I admit.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I know, I know. But I just got these last two today. And as for the first, I figured it was a one-off, and why get Damien all riled up? But with today’s texts—well, I was actually about to tell him this morning, but then Ollie called, and then I headed out to meet you, and . . .”

I trail off lamely.

“Not an excuse,” she says sagely. “Trust me. Over the last few months, I’ve learned quite a few things about the marriage code.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Did you know there are actually rules and expectations?”