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Looking up at the three people watching me like they don’t know whether to call an ambulance or find a straightjacket, I pull myself together.

“I’m sorry I look like a retirement home,” I tell them.

“Say what now?” asks my dad, while Jessica tilts her head, eyeing my attire and nodding thoughtfully.

Jameson ruffles my gross hair. “She’s okay. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

I nod, sighing. “I was seeing someone for a laughably short period of time, but I really liked him. It ended last night. I’m just sad. It was my first mostly sane effort at a relationship.”

Jameson and Dad exchange a glance of abject terror. Jessica rolls her eyes at them, then perches beside me. “Oh, honey,” she coos, “I know just what you need.”

“What?” snaps my dad. “What does she need?”

Jessica gives me a conspiratorial grin. “An afternoon at the spa.”

I knew I liked her.

When Jessica and I arrive at an upscale day spa in Malibu, I’m expecting a Swedish massage. What she signs us up for instead is called Island Escape, which includes a tropical bath soak, massage, custom facial, and a mani-pedi.

As Jessica hands over my dad’s credit card, I whisper-hiss, “Are you sure he’s okay with this?”

She gives me a surprised look. “Yes, Mia. Your father would hand you the moon if you’d let him.”

I search her face for signs of ulterior motives. “Does he give you his credit card a lot?”

Jessica laughs, unoffended, and takes my arm in hers. “All the damn time. I haven’t used it until now, though. But I really can’t stand football, so let’s pretend I’m only doing this for you.”

I release a short laugh. “I like you, Jessica.”

She winks. “I like you too, Mia.”

Three decadent, blissful hours later, I wobble-walk into the ladies’ locker room to change into my street clothes. I feel like I’ve been through a blender. In a good way. Like Klaus the Humongous Russian massaged all my mismatched pieces back together.

Drunk on endorphins, it takes me three tries to clasp my bra. “Motherfu?—”

“Amelia, right?” asks an unfamiliar voice.

I glance over my shoulder, expecting a spa employee. Instead, I find a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties with long, wavy dark hair and a big smile. Her eyes are dark but expressive, currently radiating excitement, and she’s wearing the spa’s white robe.

“Uh, yes? Have we met?”

Do I owe you money?

Did you have my brother’s secret love child?

It’s worse.

“I’m Marianne.” A trim, feminine hand extends toward me. “Vincent’s mom.”

My heart slams into my spine. “Oh! Oh, wow. Okay. Hold on.” I quickly pull on my shirt, internally grimacing at the garish display of color. The red shirt and yellow shorts aren’t even on the same style planet, the shirt primary red and the shorts halfway between lemon and orange. Jameson was right. I look like a blind retiree.

Smiling like I’m not dying inside, I shake Marianne’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself at the hockey game. You were probably wondering who the random chick talking to your son was.”

She laughs, an airy, addictive sound. “Oh, I knew who you were the second I saw you. Vincent told us all about the nice, pretty lady with pastel pink hair. Any luck with the surfing lessons?”

I don’t miss the knowing gleam in her eye. “Nope. I guess Leo thought cold-calling him for a business proposition was a little presumptuous.”

Marianne looks crestfallen. “Darn. I was really hoping to hear you were dating.”