The trilling of my cellphone pulls me from sleep. Dream images collapse onto themselves, painting my mind with fading color. Sensation. Warm silk and dark eyes. My skin is damp, aching with need.

Damnit.

Growling with irritation, I swipe my phone off the nightstand. “What?” I snarl.

“Wow, good morning to you, too,” chirps Vera Sharp.

Vera and I met at a bar in Hollywood four years ago. Instead of picking up men, we’d picked up each other. The running joke among our friends is that if we were gay, we’d be married by now.

“Sorry,” I sigh. “Bad dreams.” I glance out floor-to-ceiling windows, gauging the angle of sunlight on the deeply green landscape and glittering ocean beyond. “What are you doing? What time is it?”

“Eleven o’clock, you lazy bitch. I’m calling because I’m at your front door and want to know if you set the alarm last night.”

She has a key, not to mention the alarm code; the question is a loaded one. “No one’s here,” I answer. “Come on in. And start some coffee, would you? I’ll be out in a few.”

“Sure thing.”

I toss the phone down the bed. Ocean breeze tickles my flushed skin, tightening my nipples beneath my cotton camisole.

“Fucking Sebastian,” I mutter.

Like clockwork, whenever I run into him in the city, I have the dreams. They last for seven torturous nights before I’m purged of wanting him. There’s a reason for the exact duration of the dreams. A damned good reason.

Eight years ago, in my second year at UCLA, I’d unexpectedly run into Sebastian at a party off campus. He’d been on summer break from grad school at NYU, in town for the week with several friends. I hadn’t seen him since leaving Boston two years prior, and discovered that time had been very, very good to him.

Always handsome, his tall, lanky frame had finally filled out. Perfect swimmer’s body—broad shoulders, narrow hips, legs that went for miles. Pitch-black eyes that undressed me from across the crowded room, igniting a dormant childhood crush.

My boyfriend had just dumped me.

I’d had a few too many drinks.

Perfect recipe for a disastrous life choice.

Sebastian and I went at it like sex addicts that night. And the next day, and the day after that. We’d ended up spending the entirety of his vacation in his hotel room.

I’d had exactly seven days of mind-blowing, totally inappropriate, borderline illegal sex with my brother’s best friend. The boy from the wrong side of the tracks. My mother’s charity case, now a world-famous actor and director.

If Alex ever finds out, he’ll kill us both. Sebastian first, of course.

Vera’s strident voice comes from my bedroom door, “What the hell? Do you have a fever or something?”

I sit up fast, palming my burning face. “No. I just, uh—I saw Sebastian last night.”

Vera’s cornflower-blue eyes widen, and a slow, salacious grin lifts her cherry-red lips. “You had a wet dream!” she accuses, striding forward effortlessly on her four-inch wedged heels. She perches on the foot of the bed. “Details. Now.”

I scowl. “I don’t remember.”

She pouts. “Rude.”

“Seriously, I don’t remember.” I slip out of bed and head to the bathroom. She follows. I pee with the door open, because we’re that close.

As I take care of business, she leans against the bathroom counter and frowns at me. “Tell me again why you won’t consider a repeat of Bliss Week?”

I flush and head to the sink to brush my teeth. “It was almost a decade ago,” I mumble around the vibrating bristles. “We were horny kids. We’re grown up now. The end.”

Thankfully, Vera has the attention span of a gnat. She picks up a ring from a small ceramic bowl on the counter. “Can I have this?”

I spit out toothpaste. “Only if you made me coffee.”

“Duh.”

“Then it’s yours.”

* * *

An hour and a half later, Vera and I sit on the sunny patio of Rhubarb, one of Alex’s Los Angeles restaurants. Though he’d never admit it, I’m positive he designed the restaurant for me.

The cottage-like atmosphere reminds me poignantly of our mother, who died of breast cancer almost six years ago. It’s artfully cluttered, bright and airy, yet warmly intimate. Small, rustic wooden tables share space with riotous greenery, and there’s a glorious view of the ocean. Next to my two-bedroom Malibu sanctuary, it’s my favorite place in the city.

“Carbs or no carbs?” debates Vera.

I eye her over the rim of my wine glass. “Do you have any gigs this weekend?”

She shakes her head, golden-brown hair sliding over a tanned shoulder. “No, but my agent wants me to drop another couple pounds before the lingerie shoot next week.”

I grimace. We’ve had the argument a hundred times—I think she should give up modeling and focus on acting. She’s insanely talented and beautiful, with the perfect blend of girl next door and sexy vixen. But modeling has been paying her bills for years, and she hasn’t landed a big break in Hollywood. A few commercials, a couple indie films. More than most, but not enough to feel secure.

“Why won’t you let me help?” I ask softly.

She scowls. “For the zillionth time, I want to sink or swim on my own merits.”

Other than her adamant refusal of my help, Vera is a classic Hollywood transplant. She left home—Saint Louis, Missouri—at eighteen. Drunk father, co-dependent mess of a mother. Church on Sundays and a mandatory part-time job beginning at age twelve.

Her two older brothers followed in their dad’s footsteps after high school and went to work in the packing industry. Convinced her options were limited to factory work or childrearing, Vera packed a suitcase and took a bus to the City of Angels.

She hasn’t seen or spoken with her family in two years, since they saw one of her racier commercial prints and accused her of doing porn. The fact that it was one of her brothers who saw it—in a famous lingerie catalogue—didn’t help matters.

Despite the vast differences in our upbringings, Vera and I are two peas in a pod. Hardheaded. Ambitious. Jaded. We even look somewhat alike, though my hair is closer to black than brown, my eyes a darker blue, and my skin can’t hold a tan to save its life. She’s also just shy of six feet tall, whereas I clock in at five-five.

Basically, I’m her short, vampiric sidekick.

“I just want you to have what you deserve,” I say in apology. “At least I’m not offering to buy you a house anymore.”

Vera snorts. “Speaking of my apartment, my new neighbors are freaking loud.”

I smirk, recalling that they’re newlyweds. “Good loud, though?”

She grins. “Whew, I’ll say. Headboard-banging, ass-spanking loud. They’re right up your alley, freak show.”

I throw back my head and laugh. “Whatever, so I like it a little rough. Sue me.”

With an embarrassed throat-clearing, our male waiter sets two more wine glasses and a bottle on the table. Vera and I trade confused glances.

“We didn’t order this,” I tell him.

The waiter, a young man with delicious caramel skin, points across the patio. “Compliments of the gentleman.”

I bend to see around Vera, then immediately straighten. “That’s no gentleman,” I say crisply. “Send it back, please.”

Vera follows my stare. “Jesus,” she hisses. “Can’t that guy take a hint? It’s been what, nine months?”

I nod shortly and wave at the bottle. “Please, I’m serious. Take it back.”

The waiter picks up the bottle, clearly uncomfortable. “W-what should I tell him?” He looks so tortured, I throw my napkin on the table and stand, picking up the bottle and glasses.

“Don’t worry about it. I got this.”