“Thanks, baby,” he whispered into her ear. And then, more loudly, “Come and say hello. I don’t think you’ve met everyone yet.”

“Hi!” she sang, giving the general table area a wave. “I’m Brooke.”

The group was gathered around a plain wooden table, tucked amid an almost private awning of flowering trees. Little seating areas were interspersed throughout the lushly planted patio, and most of them were filled with tanned, laughing people, but the entire space still felt calm, unhurried. Small torches flickered in the dark. Small votive candles flattered everyone’s features. Highball glasses clinked and music played softly from speakers hidden in the trees, and if you really tried, you could hear the steady, white-noise din of Sunset Boulevard somewhere off in the distance. Although she’d never been to Tuscany, Brooke imagined this was exactly how a countryside restaurant in the middle of Chianti might look.

Brooke felt Julian’s hand in the small of her back, pushing her gently toward the chair he’d pulled out. So lost in the magical sight of the patio all lit up at night, she almost forgot why she was there. A quick glance around and she saw Leo staring back at her with a surprisingly ill-tempered expression; a thirtysomething woman—fortysomething with great Botox?—with gorgeous olive skin and jet-black hair, who must have been Julian’s new publicist, Samara; and a familiar-looking guy she couldn’t quite place who . . . Ohmigod, is that, could it be . . .

“You already know Leo,” Julian was saying as Leo smirked. “And this here is the lovely Samara. Everyone’s already told me that she’s the best, but now I can confirm beyond any shadow of a doubt.”

Samara smiled and held her hand out to Brooke across the table. “Pleasure,” she said curtly, although her smile seemed warm enough.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Brooke said, shaking her hand and trying to concentrate on Samara and not on the fourth table mate. “It’s true, when Julian found out that you would be representing him, he came home all excited and said, ‘Everyone says she’s the best.’”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you,” Samara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But he’s making this one easy. He was a total pro today.”

“Both of you need to stop,” Julian said, and Brooke could immediately tell that he was pleased. “Brooke, I’d also like to introduce you to Jon. Jon, this is my wife, Brooke.”

Good god. It was him. She didn’t have a clue why or how it had happened, but sitting right there at her husband’s table, holding a glass of beer and looking perfectly relaxed, was Jon Bon Jovi. What was she supposed to say? Do? Where the hell was Nola when she needed her? Brooke racked her brain. So long as it wasn’t something horrifying like “I’m a huge fan” or “I really love and respect the way that you’ve been married to the same woman for all these years,” she’d probably be fine, but it wasn’t like she sat down to drinks with a superstar every day. . . .

“Hey,” Jon said, offering a nod in Brooke’s direction. “That’s some wicked cool hair you have. Is the color real?”

Brooke’s hand immediately flew to her wavy locks, and she knew without looking that her complexion currently matched her hair. Her red was so pure, so intensely pigmented, that you either absolutely loved it or unequivocally hated it. She loved it. Julian loved it. And apparently, so did Bon Jovi. Nola! she shouted to herself. I need you to hear this right now!

“Yeah, it’s real,” she said, rolling her eyes in mock disgust with it. “Source of many a cruel childhood joke, but I’m getting used to it.” She saw Julian smiling at her out of the corner of her eye; hopefully only he knew how false her modesty was right then.

“Well I think it’s fucking awesome,” Jon declared, and raised his tall, tapered beer glass. “A toast to fire cro—” He stopped short and an adorably sheepish look crossed his face. Brooke wanted to tell him he could call her “fire crotch” anytime.

“A toast to hot redheads and first appearances on Leno. Congrats, man. That’s big.” Jon held his glass aloft and everyone clinked it with his own. Brooke’s champagne flute was the last to touch it, and she wondered if there was any way she could smuggle the glass home with her.

“Cheers!” everyone called out. “Congratulations!”

“So how was it?” Brooke asked Julian, happy to give him the opening to shine once again in front of all these people. “Tell me everything.”

“He was perfect,” Samara announced in her clipped, professional voice. “His performance followed really solid guests.” She paused and turned to Julian. “I thought Hugh Jackman was charming. Did you?”

“Yeah, he was good. And so was that chick from Modern Family,” Julian said, nodding.

“We caught a break with that—two legitimately interesting and famous guests, none of the child performers or the magicians or the animal trainers,” Samara said. “Trust me, nothing’s worse than getting upstaged by a studio full of chimpanzees.”

Everyone laughed. A waiter arrived at the table and Leo ordered for the group without consulting anyone. Brooke normally hated it when people did that, but even she couldn’t argue with his choices: another bottle of champagne, a round of tequila gimlets, and a bunch of snack plates, everything from truffled porcini bruschetta to mozzarella di bufala and arugula. By the time the first dish of crab cakes in an avocado puree arrived, Brooke had happily rediscovered her earlier buzz and was feeling almost euphoric from the excitement. Julian—her Julian, the same one who slept in socks every night—had just performed on The Tonight Show. They were staying in a gorgeous suite at the infamous Chateau Marmont, eating and drinking like rock royalty. One of the most famous musicians of the twentieth century had announced he loved her hair. Of course her wedding was the best day of her life (weren’t you required to say that no matter what?), but this was quickly clocking in as a very close second.

Her cell phone screeched from her bag on the ground, a shrill fire-alarm-like ring she’d chosen post-nap to ensure she didn’t oversleep again.

“Why don’t you get it?” Julian asked through a full mouth as Brooke stared at her phone. She didn’t want to answer it, but she was worried something was wrong; it was already after midnight back at home.