“Why does she think you’re an awful son?”

“Because I had the nerve to file for emancipation when I was fifteen.”

Oh, man. I’d forgotten that Oak had divorced his parents. No wonder they never call him. “Why’d you do that?” I ask cautiously then prepare myself to get snapped at.

But he doesn’t snap. “Because we had differences over where my career was going. Specifically, Dad wanted me to end it and I didn’t.” His tone is bored. “Anyway, just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearing her bitch about me, but take it with a grain of salt, okay? Ever since the emancipation she only calls me a few times a year, and that’s only when she needs something.”

“Okay.” I pause. “Are you sure you don’t have anything else to say to me?”

“Like what?”

Um, an apology? “I don’t know…I thought you might have something more to say. Something to do with last night, maybe?” I prompt not so innocently.

“Nah.” His voice takes on an edge. “You got something you want to say to me?”

“No. Should I?”

“Well, then I guess we’re done here.”

He disconnects before I can respond, leaving me equal parts confused and pissed off. Does he really believe what he did last night was cool? I know I’m supposed to put on a show for the cameras, but that doesn’t give him the right to stick his tongue in my mouth and mock me about it.

And was he calling to warn me to not believe anything his mom says? Since when does he care what I think about him?

Argh, and why did the hurt, bitter note in his voice make my heart ache? He’s got the kind of life people can only dream of. He has zero need for my sympathy, especially after his “What’s my name?” bullshit from last night. Which he didn’t even apologize for!

Sighing, I walk over to the closet and search for something “nice and conservative” to wear. Eventually I settle on a knee-length yellow sundress with tiny green flowers along the hem and a denim jacket. I stare longingly at my Vans, then pick up a pair of brown ankle boots. Then I drop the boots and put on the Vans. I don’t care if it’s a faux pas to wear sneakers with a dress. I’ve always chosen comfort over fashion.

I’m brushing my hair when one of the twins pops into my bedroom. I think it’s Shane, but I’m too focused on doing my hair to look at him.

“Are you seeing Oak?” he asks in excitement. “Is he coming over here to get you?”

Ugh. He calls him Oak now?

“No, I’m going to lunch with his mom. A car is picking me up.”

Disappointment fills his face. Yeah, it’s Shane. Spencer is better at hiding his emotions. “Oh. Okay. Did he say when he’s coming over again?”

Never, if I can help it. It’s one thing to fake-date Oakley in public. It’s another to have him in my house. This is my happy place.

“No,” I answer.

“But he’s still gonna take us to his friend’s house, right? The one with the halfpipe in the backyard?”

I frown, because I literally have no idea what he’s talking about. So I say, “What are you talking about?”

“He said on the phone the other day—”

“When did you speak to him on the phone?” I demand.

“The other day,” Shane repeats. “Keep up, Vaughn. It’s not that hard.”

Smart-ass. “Oakley called you? Why?”

He nods animatedly. “He wanted to know how the boards were working out, if we got wheels yet. I said yeah, we did, and then I said it was a bummer he can’t go to skate parks anymore, ’cause then he coulda showed me and Spence some tricks. So then he said that he’s friends with a pro skater who has, like, an actual halfpipe and vert ramp at his house and that maybe he’ll see if we can go there sometime to skate.” Shane finishes in a rush.

I’m confused again. Oakley hadn’t mentioned that he’d spoken to my little brother.

“Can you remind him next time you see him?” Shane begs.

“Yeah, sure,” I agree, because it’s nice to see Shane so animated. The twins shut down after Mom and Dad’s deaths, Shane more so than Spencer, so a huge part of me is grateful.

But I’m also wondering what kind of game Oakley is playing now.

Oakley’s driver takes me to a small bistro on Rodeo Drive. It’s called the Wicker Garden and I Googled it on the way and found out it’s the place for celebrities to eat lunch. Apparently it’s famous for its kale Caesar salad and for being the site where Paul Davenport proposed to Hallie Wolfe. They’re famous actors whose marriage lasted about as long as it takes for your food to arrive at the Wicker Garden.

I wipe my damp palms on the front of my dress as I reach the hostess stand. “Ah, hi,” I tell the elegantly dressed woman. “I’m Vaughn Bennett. I’m, uh, supposed to meet Katrina Ford?” I never, ever thought those words would be coming out of my mouth.

“Right this way.”

She leads me through a white archway that’s covered in ivy and I think is made of wicker. The Wicker Garden is really trying to live up to its name. All the tables here give off the illusion of being secluded, thanks to the huge planters of ferns and palm fronds situated all over the patio. But it’s not at all private—there are nearly a dozen photographers standing beyond the railing that separates the bistro from the street.

I know they’re taking my picture, so I make a conscious effort to keep my shoulders straight and my expression blank. I don’t want them getting any shots of me slouching, or catch a weird angle of me scratching my cheek and then reading tomorrow that Oakley Ford’s girlfriend picks her nose!

Katrina Ford hops out of her chair when I reach her table. She’s wearing tight black pants, a loose-fitting black top that somehow accentuates her slenderness, silver hoop earrings and stilettos with the famous red heel. I stare at her for a long second, because she’s even more beautiful in person. Her eyes are the same shade of green as Oakley’s, but her wavy mane of hair is a few shades lighter.

“Vaughn!” she squeals, and then I’m pulled into an unexpected hug. She smells like expensive perfume. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

I offer an uncertain smile. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Ms. Ford.”

“Call me Kat.” She tugs on my hand. “Sit, please. I’ve been looking forward to this all morning, ever since Claudia phoned on Oak’s behalf. She said he was dying for me to meet his new girlfriend.”

My brow furrows. Is that what Claudia told her? That Oakley wanted us to meet?

Guilt tickles my belly as I take the seat across from her. A waiter wearing all black rushes up to take my drink order. I ask for a Coke, and Katrina orders a mimosa.

“It would have been nice if he’d phoned himself,” she admits, folding her hands on the crisp linen tablecloth. Her fingernails are shiny and perfect, as if she’d just gotten a manicure. “But I get it. Hollywood, right? Everything is done through agents and publicists, even conversations between a mother and son.” She smiles carelessly, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

That guilty feeling gets worse. It clearly bothers her that Oakley didn’t call her. I know why he didn’t—he had no clue this lunch date was even happening until after I was informed about it. Claudia set it all up without his approval.

But I can’t exactly tell his mother that.

The waiter returns with our drinks and then takes our orders.

“Have the kale Caesar,” Katrina urges. “It’s divine!”

Gag. Kale is so gross. “How about a regular Caesar salad?” I ask tentatively. “Like, with lettuce? Do you have that?”

The waiter arches a brow. “We don’t serve lettuce in any of our salads. It’s all kale.”

Double gag. I give the menu a speedy scan. “I’ll have the turkey and avocado sandwich, please.”

“Brie or goat cheese?”

“Um. Brie.” There aren’t any prices listed on the menu, and I’m suddenly terrified I might have ordered a hundred dollar sandwich, but Oakley’s mom doesn’t seem concerned.