Page 51 of The Sun & Her Burn

Linnea held aloft in Adam’s arms in the middle of a grass field in black jumpsuits, their golden heads the same shade as the dried stalks waving in the breeze around them. They were both smiling, foreheads pressed tight together, but their expressions weren’t for public consumption. They weren’t forced grins after a stilted dinner at some celebrity hotspot likeSpagoor carefully constructed poses for the red carpet.

It was a real moment of pure, quiet joy between two people.

The public was eating it up with a spoon.

Adam and Linnea continued to feed them by going out five times over the next ten days. I knew, both from the reports and from Linnea, who texted me daily, that they had gone for a hike in Runyon Canyon, to brunch at République, for a walk alongZuma Beach, and twice to shop on Rodeo Drive. Adam bought her a straw hat from Dior when she started to get a sunburn, and the paparazzi captured the moment he took it out of the bag to place it on her head.

Most of the commentary was positive, especially surrounding Adam. People loved him in his films, and they wanted to see him happy in real life, even if it wasn’t with them. A few said it was fake and a few more said Linnea Kai, daughter of washed-up actress-turned-socialite Miranda Hildebrand, was a hussy. A downgrade from Hollywood elite, Savannah Richardson.

But mostly it was good news.

So why did it make me feel sick to my stomach?

My plan to save Adam and help Linnea was set, both of them in agreement even if it had taken some convincing. If yesterday was any example, they seemed to be getting along well, and the media already had a couple name for them now that they knew who ‘mystery girl’ was.

Linam.

This is what I lived for, to help my loved ones find happiness, and this arrangement would solve so many problems for both of them.

So why did I have a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as I drove to pick up Linnea for our morning surf at Topanga Beach?

I pulled up to the cheery yellow house with something like dread in my stomach because I couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like if this were a date.

What if I had been selfish enough to keep Linnea to myself?

What if I had been cruel enough to make her fall in love with me when I was unsure I would ever be free of the sticky tendrils of a love that had snared my heart in its web at eighteen?

Because I honestly believed Linnea could fall in love with me.

We had been friends for years because we shared many of the same passions—film, fashion, good food, adventure—and there was no denying there was chemistry between us. A crackling energy I felt like a lightning strike every time I looked at her.

It happened then, as the front door swung open to reveal her in a tiny yellow polka-dot bikini and a crocheted white mini dress thrown on over top. I knew without asking she had made the dress herself because I’d seen the bundles of yarn when she’d given me a tour of the house the other day, a half-finished blanket for Miranda pooled in one corner. She wore a different set of rings today, always swapping them out to match her outfit. Today, they were chunky silver with the odd piece of turquoise and yellow jade. They clinked as she lifted her fingers to push her thick hair out of her face, blowing an errant piece off her lip-glossed mouth at the same time.

“Sebastian,” she said breathily as if she’d run to the door. Her chest heaved dangerously beneath the tiny yellow triangles, and I tried valiantly not to watch. “Sorry, would you mind coming in for a moment? I’m almost finished with this dress, and I need it for my date with Adam tonight.”

I nodded, but she was already moving down the hall back toward her studio.

She hadn’t noticed what I held in my hands, which, I was discovering, was a lot like her. Just as she had been as a teenager, Linnea was always moving, twirling, hustling.

Trottolina, my little spinning top.

I closed the door behind me and wandered into the living room to see Miranda sitting in her usual chair and a middle-aged woman occupying a spot on the loveseat as they both watchedGeneral Hospital.

“Clark,” Miranda said the moment she saw me, opening her hands for the flowers I carried. “Good, the other ones need to be thrown out.”

I bent to press a kiss to each of her papery cheeks. It still astounded me that a woman in her early fifties could look so fragile, especially one who used to be as bold and beautiful as Miranda.

“It’s good to see you,bella,” I told her.

She grinned, then shot the other woman a haughty look. “This is my Clark, Luiza.”

“Hello, Luiza,” I greeted her with a wink.

The woman stared at me, unimpressed. “Hello.”

Miranda snickered. “Don’t be offended, Luiza Ramirez doesn’t go gah-gah over celebrities the way normal people do. The only one she likes is Adam Meyers.”

I had to roll my smile between my teeth at the news.