There’s the slightest twitch in her jaw, one so slight it would probably go unnoticed by someone who hasn’t memorized every inch of her face.

Her posture becomes less rigid, her expression suddenly softer. “How are you feeling today? You good?”

Confused by this change of tactic, I instinctively want to cover my crotch. Instead, I straighten, taking the smallest step back. “Why?”

“No reason,” she says with a casual shrug. “You just look a little, I don’t know . . . fluffier than normal.”

There’s a distinct emphasis on the word fluffier, and I feel naked and afraid as her eyes drop all the way down my body and back up, before she takes the cookie from me.

“Are you depressed?” she asks, tossing it into the trash. Smiling sweetly at me, she coos, “Carter, you don’t need that.”

It takes a minute for the pattern of her questions to register—How are you feeling today? You good? Fluffier than normal . . . —and then I get it: Evie fucked with my suit.

I would strangle her right now if I had more range of motion inside this tiny jacket. But instead, as I watch her walk triumphantly down the hall, I pull my phone from my pocket, open the saved post in my browser, and hit submit.

One . . .

Two . . .

She pulls up short as her phone rings, retrieving it from her purse. “Evelyn Abbey speaking.” A pause, and her forehead furrows. “What? No, I think there’s been some mistake. I don’t have a car for sale.”

I rock back on my heels. My bad mood is a distant memory.

“No,” she says again. “I told you, I don’t have—yes, that’s my number, but I’m not selling a car. And definitely not at that price.” Ending the call, she turns to leave, but the phone rings again.

“Hello? . . . No, there’s been some sort of mix-up, someone else just . . . No, I don’t have a car for sale. Can I ask where you saw this? Craigslist . . . and the Times?” She looks back at me from over her shoulder. “And what did the ad say?” A moment of silence. “Tesla Model S, one owner . . . One thousand dollars or best offer?” she shouts, and hangs up the phone, turning to me. “You did this!”

It’s my turn to shrug. “Did what? I didn’t know you were selling a car. Good for you—taking a chance on the LA public transit system!”

“That’s it, Aaron,” she growls, walking back to me and pointing a finger to my chest. “No more freebies, no more help. From now on, you’re on your own.”

“Narcissist much?”

She leans in close and I get a whiff of her. It slaps me somewhere nostalgic, making me dizzy. “Just do your job today, okay?” she growls. “Watch that your brother doesn’t screw this up, and make sure Jamie doesn’t slow Seamus down.”

• • •

Come nine thirty, Jonah is still nowhere to be found. By ten, I’ve almost worn a hole through the studio floor—and possibly the seams of these pants—when he comes strolling in.

Talking on his cell phone.

Carrying a takeout coffee cup and sporting dark sunglasses.

Evie, thankfully, is in Seamus’s dressing room trying to calm the actor down.

“What the fuck, Jonah?” I say, crossing to him. The fabric between my thighs chafes audibly with each step. Swish swish swish. “Nice of you to stop by.”

He looks up at me over the top of his lenses. “Chill out.”

“Chill out,” I repeat under my breath, turning away and pushing a hand through my hair. The seams of my jacket protest. “We moved things to accommodate your schedule.”

“Would you relax?” he says, clearly agitated now. “My assistant has everything set up, and I’ve already gone through the shoot list with the creative director. I’ll do a final check of the lights and we can get started. By eleven, exactly like we discussed. Just get out of my fucking space.”

If my brother came with one set of instructions, they would say: Does not play well with others. In school he used to get into fights almost daily with kids who teased him about his ever-present camera. Now, as an adult, he just doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him; as long as he’s making money, he’s fine. It’s something I’ve never been able to understand. His assistant took care of it this time, but what Jonah fails to realize is that at some point, somewhere, someone will decide he’s not worth the hassle. Now the crew are annoyed about being kept waiting, the talent have both returned to their dressing rooms in varying states of frustration, the editors are all typing wildly into their phones because the photographer I arranged has them already behind schedule, and Evie—aside from telling off people wanting to buy her car—has been wearing her best I told you so expression since the moment eight thirty came and went without any sign of my brother.

Thank God I posted that ad this morning. The delight in seeing Evie lose it is the only thing keeping me together.

I’m halfway down the hall on my way to Jamie’s dressing room when the screaming starts.

“Who put raisins in these cookies!”

I knock on the partially open door and poke my head inside. “Is everything okay?”

By this point Jamie is dramatically retching into a garbage can and Allie is standing over her, rubbing her back.

“There was a raisin in the cookie,” Allie says to me before turning back to Jamie. “Honey, let’s take it down a notch before people start talking. If I have to get makeup back in here to clean you up, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Aren’t these the ones from craft services?” I ask, picking one up to examine it before turning it over. “We looked at these earlier, I don’t remember any—” I stop and stare down at the cookie in my hand. It looks like someone has pressed raisins into the underside of the cookie. Lots of them. Raisins that weren’t there earlier this morning.

I swing my head around to face the door. “I’ll be back.”

I set down the cookie and head toward the door. “Allie, the photographer is here. Can you get Jamie prepped to start soon? I’m sorry about all this, by the way.”

“Carter, they’re raisins, not amphetamines. She’ll be fine.”

I nod, offering Jamie another apologetic smile before I step out and close the door behind me. I am fuming.

Evie is with Seamus and his assistant in his dressing room. If I had any doubt that she was the one responsible, those hopes are dashed as soon as she sees my face. Her eyes light up, cheeks flush.