Chapter Seven
When I checked my phone the next morning, I saw that I’d missed a call from Nina the night before. She suggested drinks around seven, and said I should call her when I had a chance.
Drinks sounded good. Hell, if I’d had any champagne lying around, I would have been whipping up a mimosa for myself on the spot. Lacking bubbly, I settled for straight orange juice.
The apartment felt empty in a way it never had before. Stupid, I knew, because I’d always lived there by myself. I wished Luke could have been there with me, though, squabbling over who got the Calendar section of the L.A. Times — reading the paper was a ritual I’d acquired from my parents and still hadn’t given up — and sharing the pot of extra-strong French roast I made up.
God, I was being a moron. One hug, and
