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truth. “Not important enough for me to negotiate for it, but I would appreciate permission to swim. It would give me something to do during the day.”
    “My issue, my anger, was not about you swimming.” He steps forward, rolling up one sleeve in perfect, precise folds, unveiling muscular arms. “I was upset that you purposely disobey my rule — the rules are in place for a reason, and I need you to follow them. But what caused me to lose my temper was your display in front of Drew.”
    My face flushes, and I wonder where Drew is right now, if he is still behind me, or if he just dropped me off and moved on.
    “I understand that you have trouble understanding the difference between our sex and your exhibitionism, so know this : unless I tell you to, you will stay fully clothed in front of the staff. Do you understand?”
    I nod meekly, my cheeks burning as I am talked to in the manner someone would a small child.
    “I’ll speak with your hair stylist. I’m sure there is some product that can be purchased to protect your hair. I will allow you to swim, assuming you do it during the day when I am at work.” He finishes the second sleeve, both forearms now bare, the look — combined with his loose tie and rumpled hair — incredibly hot.
    I will allow you to swim. His gifts are still insults. “Thank you,” I say softly, trying not to stare at the muscles in his arms, or the beautiful length of his fingers as they rest on his hips. I hate when this happens. When I hate this man and then my mind wanders, picking up on one of the small details that makes him devastating. His looks are my weakness, his mind my undoing.

CHAPTER 8
    “Y our husband is so handsome.”
    I look up from my book, my feet tucked beneath me, my father’s snores comforting in their regularity. “I’m sorry?”
    Pam beams, a worn People magazine clutched in her large hands, the cover moving as she scurries closer. “Jeanie brought this in, it’s got photos from your trip to Napa. I didn’t realize how handsome your husband was. Why, you’re famous!”
    She unfolds the magazine, folding it back on itself, thrusting the glossy pages forward, one bare fingernail tapping insistently on the page. I accept it carefully, my eyes devouring the pages. We have no internet at the house. Or rather, I am not given the password for the house’s Wi-Fi. My original cell phone, the one that made the limo ride with me to Nathan’s home, is gone — taken by Nathan. He gave me a new one that is simple and purposeful. It makes and receives calls and text messages.
    I know that Nathan is important, someone worth reporting about. The paparazzi used to wait at the airport for me, snapping bright white pictures as I entered the FBO, shouting out questions that I always ignored. My rules are clear. The press is to be ignored. It, according to Nathan, is one of the most important rules. I always hear their questions, see their flashbulbs, but have never read their words. I don’t know much of anything about Nathan other than that he comes from wealth, is heir to something impressive, and that he develops skyscrapers and resorts and gated communities that he fills with the wealthy.
    The photos are from a charity luncheon that we attended, hills of grapevines in the distance, the sunny warmth of the day coming through in the images. The shots seem to focus on us, the other couples in attendance mostly ignored by the photographer. If I can say so, I look fabulous — glowing with happiness, my head tilted toward Nathan, a proud smile on his face, as he looks at me with an emotion some might confuse with love. I love these pages; I want to take this magazine and stuff it into my bag. I want to pore over the photos in the privacy of my room, to look at the representations of my life that I wish were accurate.
    I feel the chair shift as Pam’s large weight rests on the arm, her face close to mine as she reaches forward, pointing to a photo of the two of us. “This