Derek pulled the cork from the bottle, poured some of the Chardonnay into two glasses, and waited for Pepper to speak.

She did, but not until after she’d downed a large gulp.

“I’m not a closet alcoholic,” she said, seeing him watch her.

“Never said you were.”

“Your eyes say enough.”

He took a sip of his own wine, enjoyed the notes of cherry, the bitter tang on his tongue, the pleasant warmth in his stomach. “This is good.”

A shrug. “I know wine.”

Lifting his glass, Derek said, “Case in point.”

Pepper sighed. “Do you honestly not know what happened with Christian?”

“I haven’t been spending a lot of time in the usual Hollywood circles.”

“Why not?” She traced her finger along the top of her glass. “That’s where you live.”

“Used to live,” he said. “And things got old after awhile.”

“That they did.”

“I wanted something . . .”

Pepper met his eyes. “Different?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, perfect understanding passing between them. It created a connection, one he’d never thought possible. A single word and Pepper understood him more than even his own family had.

“Yes.”

“I’ve wanted something different my whole life.” A self-deprecating smile. “Unfortunately, it’s been impossible to find something that fits.”

“Hence the human-directional advertising.”

She laughed darkly. “No, that was more about making some money, because I’m tired of asking my father to pay my way.”

Derek considered her . . . and then himself. He’d short-changed Pepper, never thinking of her as anything but an accessory to the family business. He should have given her more credit. Especially, since he’d left his family’s company in order to make his own way.

“I know, surprising, right? But turns out that an art history degree doesn’t create a lot of opportunities for a girl trying to make a living.”

“And this has to do with Christian?”

“Obscurely.” She huffed. “I begged Christian for a job because I thought it was a good, happy medium. Pulling in an up-and-coming celebrity who hadn’t made an O’Brien Film yet, meeting other new talents. Of course, my father nearly had a stroke when he learned that I was assisting, so it wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. It’s just . . .”

Pepper paused. Derek waited.

“It’s not a surprise that I’m different. I’ve always been. You remember the birthday party, right?”

“Yeah.”

The infamous Birthday Party.

It had been Paul’s eighteenth, and no way could Derek forget it.

“I wanted to do something nice for him, so I rented the animal company. He loved snakes, and I thought he would enjoy it.”

Paul had, Derek knew. Unfortunately, his girlfriend and the bevy of other teenage girls hadn’t.

“When that one slipped out of my hands and landed on Mandy”—who’d run screaming on the wet pool deck and ended up with a broken leg—“it was an accident.” She sighed. “But then again they always are.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said. “Paul’s girlfriend should have known better than to run on water-soaked concrete.”

“What’s the saying?” Pepper twisted her wine glass in her fingers. “Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice? But it has struck. Multiple times. And the only common factor is me.” Her voice dropped. “I’m toxic.”

“I don’t think—”

She cut him off, mask sliding over her face, tone going chipper, fake smile locking into place.

It made him sad.

“So, anyway. Christian’s maid was ill, and I thought I’d help her out. His house was a big place, and she was getting older. But then I got a little carried away when I saw the Oscar. I managed to whack Christian in the face—broke his nose and gave him two black eyes before an important call back—and dropped the statue.” Her eyes drifted to the table. “For as heavy as the thing was, you’d think . . . well, it broke into pieces. And then I had already damaged his couch with the vacuum. It fell and knocked a priceless painting from the wall.”

The laugh snuck out of him before he could help it.

Derek had met Christian Strand once, and the guy was a pompous asshole.

He quite liked the idea of the other man getting smacked in the face with his own statue.

At the sound of his chuckle, a look crossed Pepper’s face. Not hurt exactly, more like resignation, but he knew immediately that he’d done the wrong thing in laughing.

Pepper didn’t give him the opportunity to apologize.

She stood, the chair’s legs scraping against the tile floor.

“It was just the typical Pepper O’Brien disaster,” she said. “No lasting injuries, but my dad paid a settlement anyway and gave him his choice of projects.”

She crossed to the counter, retrieved a metal bowl, and pulled out a piece of glass that looked to have come from the jar he’d broken earlier. She tilted it this way and that, staring at the transparent material as though it held state secrets.

Derek frowned, opened his mouth. The piece dropped back into the bowl with a soft clink.

“Things worked out, I guess. The movie is already getting Oscar buzz, and it’s not even in full distribution yet.” Her eyes found his. “So, there you go. The whole sordid tale.”

“Pepp—”

“I’m going to take a shower. I trust you can show yourself out.”

She disappeared down the hall before he managed another syllable. The door closed, the lock clicked into place, and Derek sat by himself at the kitchen table with two glasses of wine, both nearly untouched.

Who was the alcoholic now?