Back at her one-bedroom apartment, also situated in the Mission area, with its tiny bedroom, attached office, and combined kitchen and dining nook, Audrey swept her wet rain jacket from her shoulders and undressed. She put on her comfiest pair of sweats and slipped beneath the covers of her bed, content to be out of the chill.

Beneath the sheets, her mind swirled with thoughts of her boss—that crooked smile of his, his tan skin, his thick head of black hair, and his occasional five o’clock shadow, which made him look even more handsome, if that was possible.

What if he fired her?

Bringing her hair into a ponytail, Audrey dove into damage control, calling the journalists and tabloids across the state of California. She began with a San Francisco-based tabloid called the Lighthouse, whose writer, Monica, was actually in charge of following the Sheikh’s every move. He’d made her famous and rich, and as such, Audrey had become a constant caller of Monica—always trying to get her to take the stories down a notch.

“Oh, hey there, Monica,” Audrey said, speaking companionably. “How’s your day? I hope you’re staying out of this rain. Brrr.”

“Get to the point, Audrey,” Monica said. She chewed gum religiously; Audrey couldn’t remember a phone call with her that didn’t include the sound of it smacking between her teeth. “I know you’re calling about the Sheikh. What did he do this time?”

“Oh, he did nothing, absolutely nothing,” Audrey said, stuttering. “I just wanted to let you know that he’ll be appearing at a benefit auction this weekend regarding victims of the recent flooding in New Orleans.”

“Is that so?” Monica said, almost showing her eye roll through her tart voice. “Because you know we don’t print anything like that, Audrey.”

Audrey pressed her lips together, trying to think. “He did nothing wrong,” she said, trying to be honest. “I just took a few too many steps in the PR department and might have messed up his chances of having any good news in the next few months. It’s all about me. And I’m asking you—professional to professional—not to print it.”

“Ha! You messed up? You, the hotshot PR whizz of San Francisco?” Monica said, sounding giddy. “This is almost too good to be true. I imagined the Sheikh had just, you know, slept with another dumb model or something. But this—” She started to chuckle. “This is something I can turn into a story.”

Audrey swallowed, sensing she was in deep water. “I respect you a great deal as a journalist, Monica—”

“Ha. No, you don’t. I would never believe those words out of anyone’s mouth,” Monica said. “I don’t even respect myself as a journalist. But you know what? I pay my damn bills, and I can’t expect a whole lot more from myself, especially in this poisonous city. Hey, Audrey, if this works out well readership wise, I’d love to take you out for a drink, really rack your brain to see how best to get the Lighthouse readership up. Seems like you’re already working with us in mind.”

Irritated, Audrey hung up on Monica, anger throttling her. After taking a deep breath, she dialed a few more journalists across San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York, trying to get a sense for if she could bribe them into not writing a horrible story about her and the Sheikh. But none of them seemed ready to promise anything.

Audrey could understand why, but she hated that she was going to be outdone by a dramatic television actress who would soon surely fade into obscurity. Shifting back in her bed, she dialed another number—a bit less familiar than the journalists’—and waited as the phone rang out across the continent.

Her father picked up on the third ring. His familiar, gruff voice made tears spring to her eyes.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you.”

“I know, Dad,” Audrey said. “I’ve been caught up in work, as usual. All of a sudden it’s April, and I haven’t seen you guys since September…”

She trailed off, remembering that long-ago day in Alaska, the place her parents had retired to five years before. They’d gone for a hike through the mountains, and they’d gazed out over the water, not able to find words to make up for all the time they’d missed.

“Well, I know your work makes you happy,” her father said. “It always has, ever since you were a girl. Never had to tell you to do your homework.”

That was something her father almost always brought up at parties—that his daughter had always had her life and her priorities straight. Of course, Audrey didn’t feel like that now.

“Must be pretty cold up there still, huh?” Audrey asked.

Her father laughed. “It’s always on the brisk side, but you know this suits your mother. She always hated California and that heat. I know you don’t get it in the Bay as much, but in Marine, when you were growing up, it seemed sweltering sometimes. Never got a break. Plus, the different landscape and everything makes us feel like we have this whole new life open to us. Our friends back home are getting fat and bored. Not us!”

Audrey laughed appreciatively, wishing more than anything that she was locked away with her parents in their cabin, hiding from the rest of the world. “I’ll have to make plans for a visit,” she said.

“Once everything at work calms down, I’m assuming?” her dad asked, sounding understanding yet a bit sad.

“Right,” Audrey said, feeling her heart sink in her chest. “This new client—the Sheikh—is a handful. Even Mom knew his bad reputation, and you guys are hidden from the rest of the world. I have my work cut out for me.”

“If anyone can do it, honey, it’s you,” her father said.

“Is Mom around?” Audrey asked, hoping for some of her mother’s soft, poetic words, which always caused her tense muscles to ease.

“She went out to the store,” her dad said. “Always gets caught there for an hour or so, chatting to whoever she can find. She’ll never change. Always has a friendly word.”

Audrey sniffed, disappointment making her stomach feel heavy. She told her father she loved him, that she’d call again soon, and then made an excuse to hang up, knowing it was time to call a few more journalists and writers and hop back into work mode. Before she knew it, she was doling out the same old sly words to writers across the country, trying to mop up her mistakes. Already, she was sensing defeat.