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“Sam,” Dillon scolded, but again the woman—who was beginning to seem familiar—showed her her palm.

“Silence, Sinc.” She looked back to me. “Sam Huntley.” She stuck out her hand.

The name immediately jogged my memory. I knew her at once. I’d seen her face plastered all over the TV for years. One of England’s greatest soccer players. Her accolades were endless. And then, later, I remembered her being in the news—no longer for soccer, but because a terrible motorcycle accident had ended her career.

I shook her hand.

On so many occasions Dillon had referenced her best friend, Sam. Of course it would be Sam Huntley—because, after all, she was Dillon Sinclair.

“Hi—Kameryn,” I managed. “Kingsbury.”

“Could have fooled me for Tonya Harding.” Again, she winked. “Won’t lie—I’d half believed Sinc made up the whole thing. Didn’t for a minute imagine you’d settle for an ugly mug like hers. I promise you, lass—you could do so much better.”

Before I could answer, she turned her attention to Dillon. “Don’t think you’re in the clear—I’m not done with you. But I’ll leave you to it for now. Nothing worse than acting a spare tire.” Taking a step to the front door, she looked back at me one last time. “You ought to come to my bash on Saturday. I promise, I could find you someone to leave with a whole lot dishier than ol’ Sinc, here.” She gave her friend a pointed glare. “See you then, marra.” And shut the door.

Scene 32

“How can you live here, with this view, and have never been on it?”

Dillon followed Kameryn’s gaze to the London Eye, just a few hundred meters from where she sat at the railing of her balcony. She tipped her head back, resting it against Kam’s chest, who had come to stand behind her.

It was the third morning they’d woken in London together, and the day was unusually bright, the sky clearing across the city. The slowly revolving observation wheel gleamed against the sunlight, its reflection bouncing off the slow pull of the river. Dillon closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the idle fingers Kam ran through her hair.

“I don’t know. It’s like the people who live in New York City who’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty.”

“I bet most of them have, they just don’t admit it.”

“Nonsense. You live in LA. Have you ever been to the Capitol Records Building?”

“Yes.”

“Madame Tussauds Wax Museum?”

“Yes.”

“Hollywood Walk of Fame?”

“Yes.”

“Griffith Park Observatory?”

Kameryn laughed. “Withyou.”

“The Farmers Market at the Grove?”

“Also with you.”

“Universal Studios?”

Kam tugged a shaggy lock of her too-long hair. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

“Never.” Dillon smiled, wishing she could bottle the moment, to find a way to permanently absorb the happiness, this feeling of contentment. Kam bent to kiss her. “How about the pilings beneath the Santa Monica Pier?” Dillon asked against her lips.

“Once or twice.”

“Twice?” She pivoted in the chair to face her, tilting her head in mock indignation. “With whom?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kam slid to sit on her lap.