While our house is truly spectacular, I think the best thing about living in Malibu is the proximity to Upper Crust, a beachfront bakery and coffee shop that ranks pretty close to heaven as far as I’m concerned.

A converted house, the bakery sits on a rock outcropping just off the Pacific Coast Highway. I turn into the parking lot and have to remind myself not to steer Coop, my cherry-red convertible Mini Cooper, over to the drive-through window for a coffee and a muffin. Instead, I grab one of the coveted parking places, slide out of the car, and head for the door.

The bell tingles as I push inside, and I pause on the threshold, breathing in the scent of yeast and coffee. The Upper Crust is known for its variety of baked-daily bread and muffins as well as its proprietary blend of aromatic coffees.

Like I said—heaven.

Because I’m not the only one who thinks so, the line is seven people deep, and I scroll through my emails as I wait my turn. I’m ten minutes early for the interview, and as I’m about to text Ms. Lee and ask what I can get for her, I realize that I haven’t actually communicated with her directly. Her editor has always been a go-between.

Frowning, I scope out the line, wondering if one of my fellow customers is the reporter. But nobody’s carrying a tiny tape recorder or a narrow, spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. More to the point, no one is looking around as if they’re trying to find me.

And surely she knows what I look like.

She still hasn’t made contact when I reach the counter, so I take a chance and order two nonfat lattes and two blueberry muffins. Worst case, I end up doubly caffeinated and have a bonus muffin to go.

I wait my turn with the rest of the flock, then take the drinks and muffins out the back door to the wooden patio. Built on the same rocks that secure the bakery, the patio extends out over the beach, with a wooden staircase leading down to the dry, loose sand, and, further on, to the wet, packed beach being rubbed smooth by a steady, relentless surf.

Maybe it’s because I grew up landlocked in Dallas, but I never tire of watching the waves or the surfers who flock to Malibu to ride them. Now, I’m watching as a kid who looks about sixteen paddles out, then rises expertly onto the board. I hold my breath, always fearful they’ll fall, then exhale with a yelp when someone pulls out the seat next to me.

“Mrs. Stark?”

The speaker is a slender woman, probably five years older than me, with a bland expression, equally dull gray eyes and a smile that’s so tight I’m certain she practiced it in the mirror for hours.

Nerves, I decide. Then wonder why someone who doesn’t like chatting with strangers would possibly go into journalism.

Not a question I can answer, though, so I simply concentrate on keeping my own smile cheery and welcoming as I gesture to the chair opposite me. “Please call me Nikki. And you must be Mary. It’s so nice to meet you.”

She sits, looking a little more comfortable, then even grateful when I point out the coffee and muffin I grabbed for her.

“How long have you been a reporter?”

It’s the right question. She tells me about how it had always been her dream. How she’d worked on all her school newspapers up until college. “But I didn’t pursue it then. And later, when I realized how much I regretted it, I started trying to sell freelance articles.” She lifts a shoulder in a modest little shrug. “Now I get regular assignments.”

“That’s so great.” I mean it, too. I’m genuinely impressed by anyone who works hard for their dream.

“Hmm.” She twists in her seat, looking behind her and up the coast. “I thought we might be able to see your house from here, but it’s blocked by the hills.”

“It’s a bit of a drive with the twisty roads, but it’s only a short walk down the beach. Damien and I walk here with the girls sometimes on the weekends.”

“I didn’t realize your house was so close. I’d love to see it. For the article, of course.”

“Oh.” I consider that. “We prefer not to have the press in the house. But we can walk to the bungalow. It’s been my office for the past two years, and there’s plenty of kid paraphernalia strewn everywhere to prove that I’m a working mom.”

Since she thinks that sounds like a great plan, we leave the ceramic mugs and plates on the table along with a tip, then head toward the stairs.

We take off our shoes and carry them by our fingertips as we slog through the thick sand, then walk easier once we reach the surf. I’ve changed into a wrap-style skirt, and I’m glad I didn’t wear slacks, as the cuffs would be soaked from the waves that keep crashing around my ankles, repeatedly trying to topple me into the surf.

Even walking leisurely, it still only takes ten minutes to reach the bungalow. It’s bordered on the south by a narrow concrete access road that the city utilizes for the bungalow’s trash pickup and also as emergency beach access. The road runs from the beach to the main road on which the house sits, and it’s bordered by an iron fence that’s repainted monthly to keep the rust at bay.

Though the bungalow originally had no parking, when I started using it for work, we removed a section of the fence and expanded it inward in the form of an open-ended rectangle, creating a fenced parking area just off the road that’s big enough to hold four cars. Access to the house requires the gate code, after which it’s a short jaunt down the sidewalk to the front door. Either that, or the visitor can walk down to the beach, hook a right, then shuffle through the sand to the wooden steps that lead up to the second floor, which is the bungalow’s main level.

That’s the entrance to which Mary and I go. It’s fully accessible from the beach, though the multitude of security cameras makes it certain that no one is climbing those stairs without being seen. As for actually entering the bungalow…well, that’s an even trickier proposition, requiring an entry code and a separate code to disengage the yowling security alarms that would otherwise begin to blare in less than sixty seconds.

As soon as I hit the final button to disarm the system, the heavy metal shutters that block all the windows recede into their recessed pockets, allowing light to flood the combination living and dining space.

“Oh, my. This is lovely.” Mary steps in behind me. “So homey and bright.”

“It’s one of my favorite places,” I admit. “Let me give you the grand tour, and then we can talk on the rooftop patio.”

I lead her through the place, letting her snap pictures with her smart phone of the kitchen and the bedroom that doubles as a play area for the girls.

“And your office?”

“There are filing cabinets hidden inside the kitchen island’s woodwork”, I tell her. “And I use the kitchen table as a workspace when my team comes in. Right now, it’s a team of four, so we fit easily around it. Have a seat while I make us some coffee to take upstairs.” I start to turn toward the coffee maker, then dive for the squeaky toy that is revealed when she pulls one of the chairs out to sit. “Like I said—working mom.”

I flash her a bemused smile and am grateful when she smiles back. The setup works perfectly for me, but seeing it through her eyes, I can see that it might be unexpected for the wife of a billionaire—or for a woman running a company with close to a million annually in net receipts.

“I mostly work on a laptop,” I explain, then wonder why I’m self-conscious. The point of this interview is to explore the fact that I’m both a business owner and a mom. And the scattered toys definitely add a touch of authenticity to the experience.

“So how did you get started?”

For a moment, the question lingers between us. Then she releases a nervous laugh. “I mean, how did you decide to get into the business. I don’t think there’s any point in going into the story about the painting.” Her lips curve into a smile that’s probably meant to be sweet but only makes me cringe. “I mean, everybody knows about that.”

“Yes,” I say, vividly recalling the day I was accosted by reporters all shouting invasive, tacky, horrible questions about Damien paying me a million dollars to pose nude. “Yes, they do.”

“Do you ever regret that decision?”

“I really don’t,” I admit. I draw a breath and turn away from her, ostensibly rinsing out the coffee carafe, but really giving myself a chance to think. “It was an arms-length transaction,” I say as I turn back around, then pour water into the machine. “And the actual portrait is very tasteful. At the end of the day, I was able to properly launch Fairchild Development years before I would have been able to if I hadn’t posed.”

She nods slowly, considering. “What if you hadn’t ended up married to Mr. Stark? Do you think you would have regretted that painting then?”

It’s such an odd question that I almost decline to answer, but she seems so earnest, and I think she’s simply fallen into conversation rather than focusing on her pre-planned interview questions.

Besides, it’s not as if my answer is any different. “No,” I say. “Still no regrets. Like I said, the painting is tasteful and our negotiation was clear. And at the time I had absolutely no reason to believe I’d ever be Mrs. Damien Stark.”

“Well, you definitely had a unique path,” she says airily. “But I’m here for the rest of the story,” she says. “How you grew your business. How you honed your skills. And,” she adds as she pushes her chair back and stands, “I’d really love to hear why you think that paying for a child from China and giving birth to a baby you hand off to a nanny qualifies you to sell an app that’s supposed to help mothers. Mommy’s Helper? Please. What the hell do you know about being a mother?”

My mouth has gone completely dry, and my heart is pounding so hard in my chest that I’m afraid I’ll crack a rib. Surely she can hear the pounding. I can barely think for the pounding.

Determined, I force myself to keep my expression calm. I focus on that. On hiding my emotions. On keeping my face perfectly blank, just as my mother always taught me. Because God forbid anyone should see your pain, because they’ll surely kick you when you’re down.

“It’s time for you to leave.” I can hear the tremor in my voice, and my legs feel like noodles. “Now,” I add as I slide my finger under the quartz countertop and press the panic button Damien insisted we install.

“Oh, is our time already up?” She smirks, then pushes her lips together in an exaggerated pout. “I guess I got everything I need. And don’t you worry. I’ll be sure to send you a copy of my article. Hot off the presses.”

I stay behind the island, my muscles tense and ready to flee if she comes toward me. She doesn’t. Instead she puts her hand on the door and pushes it open. She steps out onto the wooden deck as the guard’s cart squeals to a halt on the concrete service road.

“Stay right there,” I hear him bellow, and though I can’t see him from my position inside the kitchen, I’m certain he has a weapon trained firmly on her. “Mrs. Stark. Do you need assistance?”

“I’m fine,” I call as her eyes cut toward me through the open door. “Please escort Ms. Lee off the property.”

“Nice to have a little entourage at your beck and call. Just like all the average moms out there.”

“Who are you?” Anger is rising in me, beating back the fear, and I walk toward her and onto the patio as she responds.

“The most dangerous person on the planet,” she says. “A reporter with an agenda.”

“What agenda?”

Her eyes widen. “Why, Mrs. Stark. Isn’t it obvious? You.”

And then she trots down the steps and wiggles her fingers at the guard. “No need for the ride, handsome. I can walk.”

The guard—Peter—looks at me, and I nod in silent acquiescence as I hug myself and try to stop the quaking inside me. She can walk back the way she came, and good riddance to her. After all, it’s a public beach, and she didn’t actually do anything to me. She made no overt threats, didn’t even hint at violence.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Bottom line, she was simply rude. But she pushed buttons that I thought would no longer affect me.

And that’s what scares me most of all.