Even though part of me really wanted to stalk Reed’s daughter’s wedding photos to torture myself a little more, I moved on to the next Reed Eastwood.

My pulse jolted me back to sobriety when his profile picture popped up on the screen. This Reed Eastwood was drop-dead gorgeous. In fact, he was so incredibly handsome that I thought it could possibly be a model’s photo someone had used as a joke or to catfish. But when I clicked into the photos, there were others of the same man. Each more gorgeous than the last. He didn’t have too many, but the last one I clicked on was of him and a woman, taken a few years back. It was an engagement photo—Reed Eastwood and Allison Baker.

I’d found the author of the blue note and his love.My cell phone was dancing like a Mexican jumping bean on the nightstand. I reached over and grabbed it just as it went to voice mail. Eleven thirty. Damn, I’d really been out. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was drier than the desert. I needed a tall glass of water, Motrin, a bathroom, and the bedroom blinds drawn to block the god-awful, glaring sun.

Dragging my hungover butt to the kitchen, I forced myself to rehydrate, even though drinking made me queasy. There was a distinct possibility the water and pills were going to travel in the opposite direction in the near future. I needed to lie down. On my way back to the bedroom, I passed my laptop on the kitchen table. It was a painful reminder of the fuzzy night before—of why I’d finished a bottle of wine alone.

Todd is engaged.

I was pissed at him because I felt like crap today. And even more pissed at myself that I’d allowed him to ruin yet another day of my life.

Ugh.

My memory was hazy, but the picture of the happy couple was, of course, clear as day. A sudden panic came over me—God, I hope I didn’t do anything stupid that I don’t remember. I tried to ignore the thought, even made it back to my bedroom door, but I knew I’d never be able to rest with the unsettled feeling I had. Returning to the table, I woke up my laptop and went directly to my messages. I breathed a sigh of relief finding I hadn’t messaged Todd and then crawled back to my bed.

It was early afternoon before I finally started to feel human and took a shower. When I was done, I pulled my cell from the charger and sat on my bed with my hair wrapped in a towel, going through my texts. I’d forgotten my phone had woken me up earlier until I saw I had a new voice mail. Probably another temp agency that wanted to waste a day interviewing me when they didn’t have a job to offer. I hit “Play” and grabbed my brush to comb out my hair as I listened.

“Hello, Ms. Darling. This is Rebecca Shelton from Eastwood Properties. I’m calling in response to your request to view the penthouse at Millennium Tower. We have a showing today at four. Mr. Eastwood will be on-site if you would like to tour the space after, perhaps around five this evening? Please give us a call to confirm if this works with your schedule. Our number here is . . .”

I didn’t catch the telephone number she’d left since I’d dropped the phone on the bed. Oh God. I’d completely forgotten that I’d stalked the blue-note guy. Bits and pieces rolled back in through the fog. That face. That gorgeous face. How could I have forgotten that? I remembered clicking through his pictures . . . , then his bio . . . , which led me to a website for Eastwood Properties. But then I couldn’t remember a damn thing.

Grabbing my laptop, I searched my history and called up the last website I’d visited.

Eastwood Properties is one of the largest independent brokerage firms in the world. We connect the most prestigious and exclusive properties with qualified buyers, assuring the utmost privacy for both parties. Whether you’re in the market for a luxury New York City penthouse with a view of the park, a waterfront Hampton estate, or an enchanting chateau escape in the mountains, or you’re ready for your own private island, Eastwood is where your dreams begin.

There was a link to search properties, so I typed in the name of the place the woman had mentioned in the voice mail: Millennium Tower. Sure enough, the penthouse popped up for sale. For only $12 million, I could own an apartment on Columbus Avenue with sweeping views of Central Park. Let me write you a check.

After drooling through a video and two dozen photos, I clicked on the button to make an appointment to view the property. An application popped up, the top of which read: For the privacy and safety of our sellers, all prospective buyers are required to complete an application to view properties. Only buyers that meet our stringent prequalification criteria will be contacted.