Belatedly, the words accompanying the picture joined the throng of torture in my head. I wiped my stinging eyes and grabbed the paper from Jazz.

Jack approached, holding a bottle of water.

The headline, Audrey loses baby in grief over Jack's cheating ways, was followed by a messy timeline dating back well before I'd met Jack. I was one in a long line of conquests, according to the article, but held particular significance because I caused such a rift in their relationship that she'd lost her baby. And in her grief she'd sought comfort and solace from the director of her new movie. Whatever. But it was all so ... believable.

"Look, I can talk to him," Jack said to whoever was on the phone. He handed me the water but didn't look at me.

Please look at me.

"Have Sheila and my lawyer reach out to him. See if we can come to some kind of deal before he turns the story in. He can't use the pictures without being sued. I own the rights. And I can promise you, I'll sue the f.u.c.k out of him. But realistically, he'll use them, then retract, so he'll still get impact."

"I can't believe one girl can be such a b.i.t.c.h." Jazz grimaced.

"Yeah," Jack murmured. "She just waited until we were out of the contract and did exactly what she'd wanted to all along." He turned toward the boat, looking out into the distance.

He hadn't touched me since we'd left the cottage. I felt the loss of it keenly. At the same time I felt so irrationally angry and irritated with him, I felt if he touched me, I'd cringe.

"We need to get to Savannah." Jack said to us, as he ended his phone call. "Devon will pick us up. I'll arrange to meet this guy there instead of back in Butler Cove. Then maybe you guys can get home without him bothering you." He headed toward the boat.

G.o.d. Was this going to be my life?

"How's Joey?" I asked Jazz, my throat raspy.

She pursed her lips. "Mad as a yellow jacket. He said Jack swore to him this wouldn't happen."

"When did you do that?" I asked Jack's back.

He shrugged, not turning around. "Yesterday. On the beach."

Please look at me, I willed him again, to no avail.

We climbed on the boat and Jazz's phone buzzed. She paused to pull it out of her back pocket. "Oh s.h.i.t buckets," she said.

"What?"

"That Ashley girl is telling everyone she made out with you, Jack. Apparently that photo of you guys she posted on Facebook a few days ago has gone nutso, and now she's making all sorts of s.h.i.t up."

"Great," I muttered tonelessly as my chest grew tight. I couldn't even look at Jack anymore. He'd said he would keep me out of the craziness, and while I knew he couldn't help Audrey's actions, his stupid night out with Devon had just made it all worse. And to be honest, a part of me blamed him for Audrey, too. Surely, her prior behavior should have alerted him to how unhinged and spiteful she was. I knew I was being irrational and that Jack was hurt, too. We should be dealing with this together ... but we'd both just closed off from each other. It was agonizing, yet ... I couldn't help it.

I sat in the back of the boat on a soft white vinyl cushion as we sped across the inland waterway, making for a Marina at Tybee, just south of Savannah. The normally freeing feeling of being out on the water felt like a death knell.

Feeling Jack's eyes on me finally, I could practically hear him begging me to look at him, but I was afraid he'd see accusation in my eyes now. I took another sip of water as Jazz came and sat next to me, sliding an arm around my shoulders.

Jack got up with a sigh and made his way to the bow of the boat.

s.h.i.t.

The idea of Ashley going around saying she and Jack had done stuff just about gave me hives. It didn't matter that I knew they hadn't. Perception was fact. I shuddered. What about when he was away on a movie and this happened? Would I be so sure it wasn't true then? Did I fully trust Jack? Was I a secure enough person?

I couldn't imagine how this relationship was going to do anything but bring out every single ugly insecurity I had.

I'd promised Jack I'd take the bad with the good, but I wasn't sure I was strong enough for this.

Devon met us in Tybee in the Jeep. Jazz had apparently gone to him first after Joey's call to tell him what was going on, and it had been his suggestion for us to divert to Savannah. He was of the opinion that it was easier to stay incognito in places where people didn't expect us to be. And not knowing what the reporter's timing was for the story, it seemed to make sense.

After Jack's and my obvious breakdown in communication, he ended up on the phone nonstop for the remainder of the boat ride to the marina in Tybee. From what I could tell, first with Sheila and his agent, and then with a lawyer they must have conferenced in about drawing up papers for a potential lawsuit.

In the end, Jazz and I decided to use our time in Savannah wisely. We asked Devon to drop us downtown in order to make another attempt at dress shopping.

Since we were there and all.

My brother was coming to get us later in Jazz's car because we didn't dare have him drive his car or my truck in case someone wanted to follow him.

It was a weird, creepy cloak and dagger situation. I was sure a lot of people would get off on the danger element ... I didn't find it remotely exciting. It made me daydream about what it would feel like to pop a Xanax. And I wanted to smack Jack for acting like he was the only one affected.

With barely a word from us to the guys, and not one word from Jack to me, we climbed out and headed into a department store. I tried to shake off the horrible lonely feeling I had at Jack's standoffish-ness. And I knew I'd done the same to him.

"This isn't working," Jazz moaned as she stared at me around the changing room curtain.

"Tell me about it," I agreed morosely with her a.s.sessment of our dress choices. It wasn't that they were all awful, but how on earth did I pick something for such a momentous occasion. That I could afford. That didn't look like I was going to Prom.

First of all, I'd never been to a grown-up black-tie affair. Secondly, I was a guest of honor. Gulp. And thirdly, there might be an A-list Hollywood celebrity in attendance. And I was going to be portrayed as his arm-candy. And with the axe of a tabloid expose about to fall, I was in major anxietymode.

"So, look. What's the worst that can happen?" Jazz always enjoyed playing devil's advocate.

"Uh ..."

"Coz, I'll tell you how I see it." She posed against the doorframe to the changing room, hand on hip and head c.o.c.ked to one side. "Insanely handsome Hollywood G.o.d brings free publicity to extremely talented, but relatively unknown artist." She bobbed her head back quickly to make sure we were still alone and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at me. "Oh, and he worships the ground she walks on. Did I cover everything?"

"Fine, Jazz. I know." I rolled my eyes at her. It did sound fine when she put it like that. "But you know me."

"Yep. Yep, I do."

"And he acted horribly this morning," I grumbled.

"Of course he did. He'd just promised Joey he would avoid this, and it happened anyway-and within hours. He must feel like s.h.i.t. Not that it's okay."

"And what about all this Audrey c.r.a.p? It makes me look worse than Tiger Woods' latest hook up."

"Whatever. You don't and won't look like a random hook up if he's still with you, right?"

"Fine," I huffed. "But you know the thought of being known as Jack's arm-candy or latest "piece of a.s.s" as Joey so eloquently put it, is not high up on my bucket list."

"Well, it'd be on mine."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Kidding," she added. "No seriously, I'm kidding. He's hot as s.h.i.t and be still my beating heart," she slapped a hand on her chest. "The boy really wants to be with you. But you're out there trying to make something of yourself. He's got to understand that, right?"

"Yes, not to mention that being Jack's girlfriend will totally eclipse the point of the evening, which is to establish myself as a legitimate artist."

She cast a disapproving look over the latest sateen and chiffon number I had on. "Whatever you decide to do, we have got to find you a dress. You look like a pastry."

I knew I looked pretty bad, and that swirl of lemon yellow cast a sickly glow to my skin. We'd tried it on in desperation. You never know ... some things look better on. "What the h.e.l.l kind of pastry looks like this?"

"I don't know. I try not to look pastries in the eye for fear they'll jump down my throat," she said, seriously.

I snorted.

"You look like I imagine a pastry to be, all sweet and puffy and s.h.i.t. Definitely not screaming 'artistic ingenue with hot Hollywood boyfriend.'"

"I give up." I groaned.

"You can't. We just need help." Jazz whipped out her phone and began texting.

"Who?" I asked.

"Didn't you say Colt had that gorgeous friend who set up your spa appointments. She'll know, right?"

"Money, Jazz. Money." I stripped the awful concoction from my body and pulled my jeans back on.

"Puh-shaw. It's an investment."

"Whatever." I pushed past her out the changing room as she bent over her phone, thumbs moving in a blur. There was no way I was spending money on a dress at this stage with all the other financial obligations I had looming ahead of me. I hastily texted Colt and told him to ignore any and all texts from Jazz, that I had it covered.

"Just think," Jazz continued, oblivious. "You won't have to pick your own dresses for Jack's industry events, you'll have the hottest designers vying for the honor."

I froze for a moment. G.o.d. Really?

"Seriously?" Jazz rolled her eyes as she noticed my expression. "Sometimes I think you were dropped on this earth out of the belly of a mothership. How does that not excite you?"

I just shook my head.

We still had ages to kill before Joey was due to get us, so Jazz and I took a walk over to our favorite coffee shop, Sentient Bean, overlooking Forsyth Park. I had a latte, she had a black tea with local honey.

"So, you practically floated off the golf cart this morning before I burst your bubble." Jazz cast me a sideways look.

I turned my head and looked out over the park and the long line of stroller brigade mommies who looked to have just finished a long work out. Yes, I should focus on the good stuff that came before my worst nightmare unfolded.

"I'm still floating," I sighed through a small smile. "It was amazing. The place was so gorgeous." I told her about the bedside lamp being one of my pieces. "But beyond that, we really talked, you know. About us, about everything. But, not about how to deal with all this stuff obviously."

"You just talked? s.h.i.t, all that romantic seclusion and sizzling tension, and no s.e.x?"

"Jazz!" My skin flooded with heat. Not because I didn't usually share with Jazz, but because my mind was immediately filled with all the intimate things Jack and I had done.

"Wow. That good, huh?" Jazz shook her head. "All the luck. Seriously."

I swallowed and shook my head as if I could dislodge Jack for a second. As if. "I thought you and Brandon were, you know, aren't you?"

"Dang, K. How are you doing it if you can't even say it? Repeat after me: having s.e.x."

"Stop deflecting, what's going on?"

"I'm not the one deflecting, but ..." Jazz sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "Meh."

"Meh? Like meh you might be, or meh, the s.e.x is meh."

"The s.e.x is most definitely meh. We are definitely done. He's sweet and everything, but honestly, my most important erogenous zone is my mind. When my mind is looking at him like he's a poor lost puppy, I can promise you it's the furthest thing from erotic. Not that he doesn't try hard," she added.

Joey had clearly ruined her. He'd made her fall for the stubborn, over-bearing, alpha-male type.

"Let's go see Mrs. Weaton when we get back," Jazz suggested suddenly. "She's bound to have some vintage beauty hidden in her closet. Her past is so mysterious, don't you think?"

"Wow. Brilliant idea," I said. "Something vintage would be perfect."

Over the moon to have Jazz and me crowded into her small vinyl covered kitchen, Mrs. Weaton fussed about as Jazz probed her with questions. "Well if you must know, I dated Montgomery Clift in the early fifties," she declared and looked at us expectantly.

Jazz glanced at me. "Name rings a bell," she tried and searched him on her phone. "Wow, so you also dated an actor. He was hot!"

I looked over and admired his dark hair and sonnet-worthy cheekbones.

"Oooh. Let me look," Mrs. Weaton implored.

Jazz turned the phone around to her. She sighed with a touch of sadness, reaching a shaky finger out, and then dropping it at the last moment. "Yes, he was. So beautiful and so tortured. Reminds me a lot of your Jack. Oh, he was so dreamy. Broke my heart, of course, when he started dating Elizabeth Taylor. Although he said it was all for show. What a beautiful couple they made." She sniffed. "Anyway, a sad soul he was. A brilliant actor, the likes of which I've never seen. He lived in those characters, taking them all on board." Her eyes took on a far away look. "He had a terrible car accident and never was fully himself again. Both his looks and his mind were forever altered." She eased her thin frame into a chair and placed a plate of cookies down in front of us.

Jazz glared at the plate and gave in immediately. It was hard not to eat anything Mrs. Weaton made.

"I still thought he was beautiful," she went on in her trembly voice. "I saw him once before the end, at a party in New York City. 'Iris,' he said, 'you were always too good for me,' and he kissed the knuckles on my left hand." She rubbed her bony fingers softly over them, her eyes glistening. "I never saw him again. He died a few months later. Heart attack, they say, but I think he was addicted to the pain medication after his accident. I think ... he couldn't deal with living such a public life and feeling like ... less."

My eyes filled, and Jazz swiped a quick finger across her cheek.

"Maybe he died of a broken heart because he couldn't be with the love of his life," Jazz said, always the romantic.

"So very, very tragic," Mrs. Weaton finished with a watery smile at Jazz's words. "Anyway, I have something that may work. I wore it to that party in New York, actually. It was my mother's from the twenties. Come help me."

Jazz and I helped Mrs. Weaton pull open the large cedar trunk at the foot of her bed. "I should have hung these all up, but I'd rather they stay in the trunk and not be moth eaten."

We took turns pulling out layer after layer of tissue paper and plastic wrap and laying them on the bed, their contents indiscernible but for a hint of color here and there. Barely disturbing the packaging, Mrs. Weaton peeked in each one. Finally, I gingerly lifted a heavier feeling package out, and she nodded.

We unwrapped it to find a gorgeous sheer flapper dress, completely see-through, made of thin tabard netting with hundreds of thousands of tiny jet beads intricately embroidered all over it down to a beaded fringe. "It was hand beaded. Everything was in those days," Mrs. Weaton said. "You can wear any color slip underneath. I wore a skin color one. I might still have it or something similar." She winked. "That sure did turn a few heads."

Jazz cackled. "You hussy!"

"It's perfect," I said, in awe.

Mrs. Weaton went to a drawer and pulled out a champagne colored slip. I took my shorts and tank off and tried the slip and then the dress on, with Jazz carefully lowering it over my head. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Wow!" said Jazz.