We’re supposed to be on set with Jonah by eight thirty on Friday, but my Evil paranoia has me there by eight, standing outside the locked studio, shivering. My jacket feels tight—my pants, too—and I can barely wrap my arms around my shoulders to keep warm.

Great. All the stress-eating is taking a toll.

About half of the crew arrives a few minutes after I do, including Jamie’s manager, who—as soon as we get inside—begins arguing with the Vanity Fair creative director and one of Jonah’s assistants about the lighting.

“Carter, hey,” Allie says, excusing herself and crossing over to where craft services are just starting to set up behind me.

“Hey.” Just like Brad mentioned when he initially placed Jamie on my list, Allie is what you would call a hands-on manager. Whereas some managers are just yes men, there to make their client happy and get a producer credit along the way, Allie is involved in almost every aspect of Jamie’s career. My life will be a hell of a lot easier because of it. “Do we know what time to expect Jamie—?”

“She just got here,” she says, nodding over to a doorway leading to the dressing rooms. “She’s in her room with her trainer.”

“Great.”

“That’s how we roll.” Her eyes follow some of the caterers as they begin unloading. She taps one of them on the shoulder as she sets down a tray of cookies, and points to the rest wrapped in cellophane. “There are no raisins in any of these, right?”

The woman looks at a label on the bottom of a tray and then consults a well-worn clipboard. “Food allergy? I didn’t see that on the order.”

“Fussy actress,” Allie corrects, and the caterer offers her an understanding smile.

“Let’s see,” the woman says, scanning the pages before stopping on an itemized list. “We have coffee and tea service, soda, fruit juices, ice water with assorted citrus, energy drinks, chocolate chip cookies, assorted Danishes, sports bars . . .” She rattles off a seemingly endless list, flipping through the papers again before smiling up at Allie. “The only raisins should be in the trail mix and it will be clearly labeled.”

Allie gives her the thumbs-up and turns back to me. I snag a cookie from the tray and then pause, looking down at it. My suit is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, like Spanx. Have I put on that much weight? Absently, I touch my stomach.

“Jamie is fussy about raisins?”

Allie nods. “She’s one of the most level-headed actresses I’ve worked with, but, Lord, is she particular about her food.” I raise a brow and Allie waves me off. “Don’t worry, she’s not a diva or anything and would never hold up a shoot, she’s just really, really particular.”

“As in particular with a side of losing it?”

“Borderline?” she says, grinning. “But regardless, that’s why I’m here.” Her phone dings and she swipes across the screen. “Which is more than I can say for Seamus. I’ll take care of Jamie; you just make sure he’s on his best behavior today.”

“Seamus is Evelyn Abbey’s problem, not mine.” I casually scan the room for Evil over Allie’s shoulder, not sure if I feel more pleased or disappointed when I don’t see her.

“Good luck to her, is all I have to say. He’s so used to having his head filled with adoration on that YouTube channel of his that he can’t take a simple no. I know it’s a sign of the times, but he got his start on the same platform where my nine-year-old uploads her What’s in My Backpack videos. Kids today want to be famous. You ask them, ‘Famous for what?’ and they don’t care. Did you know that at Seamus’s first YouTube photo shoot he wanted his own toilet seat and Kanye’s Graduation album played on a continual loop—and when he didn’t like the color scheme in one of the set designs, he said he’d be back when it was repainted?” Allie scans the area. “He will lose the plot one day, mark my words.”

I nod, having heard all of this—and more. “If you feel that way, then why on earth did you encourage Jamie to take this part?”

She lowers her voice. “Because Jamie needs this role, and right now Seamus is hot. Let him pay six hundred dollars for a hipster reflexologist to blow marijuana smoke in his face and balance his fucking chakras—I don’t care. But here? He’d better show up and do the work, not fly off the handle. Pretty early in his game to start showing his ass.”

I laugh. “I’ll be sure to give my colleague the heads-up. And keep those raisins away from Jamie.”

“I will.” Allie switches off her phone and slips it into her pocket. “Let me know when the photographer is here.”

I give her a tight smile when I realize that means Jonah still hasn’t materialized. “Will do.”

I turn and almost run right into Evie.

Shit. “Oops, didn’t see you eavesdropping behind me.”

“Eavesdropping?” She pulls back to give me an amused smile. “Oh, Carter. You love hearing yourself talk enough for the both of us.”

Like they have a mind of their own, my eyes quickly skirt down the length of her body and back up again. She’s wearing a sleeveless button-down shirt dress, with the top two buttons open, exposing collarbone and just a hint of cleavage, and I’m left momentarily speechless by her shoulders and her boobs. When I meet her gaze, the corner of her mouth twitches and I know that I’m busted.

“I see all your buttons are accounted for today,” I say.

“See? That wasn’t so hard. You’ll learn this workplace etiquette with more seasoning, sport.”

I turn as she slips past me. “It was simply a battle between workplace etiquette and a complete lack of interest,” I call after her. “Lack of interest won.”

She stops, spinning slowly to face me, and I feel sweat prick at the back of my neck. My suit seems to shrink further. Instinctively, I tighten my fingers around the cookie in one hand and the phone in the other, feeling every one of my stupid texts with Michael Christopher flash before my eyes. I can’t help but worry the sentiment in each is scrolling across my face, too.

I nearly put my face in Evie’s boobs in her office.

Keep reminding me that she’s Lucifer.

Right. Lucifer. Remember, Carter: it’s essentially her or you.

“Did I touch a nerve?” I ask.