Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

the office’s covered parking area. “You must be bored out of your mind,” I say. “But I really do appreciate it.”
    He thanks me, tells me his name is Tony, and assures me that it’s not boring at all. I don’t believe him, but I appreciate the lie.
    I’m not surprised to find Giselle in my office when I get there, but I am surprised by the wide swaths of color she has painted on my walls. She must see the surprise on my face, because her eyes go wide, and she immediately starts apologizing. “It’s so much easier to pick a color if you have an actual patch on the wall. Those cardboard paint chips will only get you so far.”
    “No, it’s okay, really. I like the blue,” I add, pointing to a patch of sky blue she’s painted by the window.
    “One of my favorites as well,” she says. She glances at her watch. “I know you have work, so let me finish putting some of these colors up, and then I’ll come back tomorrow with a few canvases for you to choose from, and you can tell me which colors sing to you.”
    I agree readily, though I don’t know how much singing the colors will do. As far as I’m concerned, the blue is just fine. But Giselle seems determined to make this a process, and since it’simportant to her—and I’m going to get a freshly painted office out of the deal—I am happy to go with the flow.
    My cell phone rings right as I’m firing up my laptop. It’s Jamie, who is calling to gloat about the fact that she going to spend the day luxuriating on the beach while I slave over a hot keyboard.
    “Not that I wouldn’t rather be shooting a commercial,” she adds. “But I’m all about the glass being half full.”
    I laugh. “Glad to hear it. And, James,” I say, “just because the beach is private doesn’t mean it’s private, you know?”
    “No naked body surfing?”
    “Not even topless,” I say, smiling.
    “Tell your man that I’ll fix dinner tonight. We can call it rent. What do you want?”
    “I’m good with anything,” I say. “And if you need to go to the store, just get Edward to drive you.” I frown, realizing how easily the instructions have come from my lips. Edward doesn’t work for me, after all. And yet here I am sliding into the mistress-of-the-house role.
    I have to admit I like it—even if I am still irritated with Damien.
    “My friend Jamie,” I say to Giselle after I hang up, even though she hasn’t asked. “She’s vegging at the Malibu house today.”
    “Sounds nice.”
    I glance around my office feeling a bit smug and very happy. “Maybe,” I say. “But this is good, too.”
    “I’m excited for you,” Giselle says. “And impressed by how quickly you’re working to get your name out there.”
    I frown, confused.
    “The article in today’s
Business Journal
,” she says, as if that will make it all crystal-clear for me. “About the app you’re designing for Blaine. I think it’s great that you’re turning all thatnasty press about the portrait around and using it to promote your new business.”
    “I didn’t contact the
Journal
,” I say.
    “Oh.” She frowns. “I guess Evelyn or Blaine must have. Either way, it’s great publicity.”
    Great, maybe. But also odd. And as soon as Giselle leaves, I pick up my phone to call Evelyn and ask if she sent out a press release. I don’t mind if she did, but I would have liked advance notice. If for no other reason than I’d like a copy of the article for my scrapbook.
    Before I get a chance to dial, however, the receptionist tells me that I have a delivery. I open my office door to find a messenger with a huge box of chocolates. I take it, bemused, and read the card.
Forgiveness and chocolate go together
.
    A wry smile twists my lips. Apparently Damien spoke with Preston Rhodes.
    I consider calling him, but decide to wait. It will serve him right to squirm.
    Promptly ten minutes later, there is another delivery. A gift basket filled with fancy liqueurs surrounding a huge bottle of Macallan whiskey. The man knows me well. I check the card and laugh out loud.
Forgiveness goes even better with alcohol
.
    Funny, maybe. But I’m still clinging to my irritation.
    Still, I can’t deny that the edge on my anger has dulled a bit.
    When the next delivery is announced, I’m already waiting by the door. I tug it open and gasp to see Damien himself standing there. He’s holding a shopping bag and carrying a single red rose. There is both amusement and apology in his eyes, and I have to