“Nude?” 

Blake’s brows knit and she closes her eyes, mouth slightly agape. When she reopens them, Karsyn is sitting with his back against the all-white sofa in her living room. Her mind processes the image—his slicked back blonde hair and two-piece designer suit, the glazed over look in his eyes, as if he neither appreciates nor has the patience for her drama. There is Karsyn who plans B-list movie nights and shows up to Blake’s apartment in a linen shirt and chinos, never without a bottle of tasteful wine. Then there is this… Karsyn, her agent. She still thinks there’s a possibility this is all an elaborate joke. 

“What… what do you mean nude, Kars?” 

Karsyn sighs, blinks up at Blake. “Nude, B. Naked. Unclothed. Au natural.” He shakes his head. “Since when do you have reservations about shooting nude?” 

“I don’t. I have reservations about this shoot,” Blake argues. 

“Why?” 

“Drew Dimitrov?” Blake scoffs, starting a steady pace about the room, her bare feet soft against the hardwood. “Drew fucking Dimitrov.” This has to be karmic or something. But she’s been good. She calls her mom at least once every two days. She donates to charity—sort of. She stays out of other people’s shit. Hasn’t lied. Much. Doesn’t steal. 

“Blake…” Karsyn shifts forward in the sofa and interlaces his fingers. “Don’t tell me your starstruck by the it-girl du jour.” 

“Starstruck?” Blake sneers. “If it were that simple.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Blake’s pacing comes to a halt. She looks at Karsyn, his expression more patient, mind most likely rewired to that tiny portion of his job description he claims forces him to be a therapist every so often. For all his structure and business mindedness, he is probably the closest thing she has to a best friend. Has been for years. But she doesn’t want to explain, doesn’t want to feel forced to open a portal four, five years into the past. She’d done the work to let go, and she can finally listen to Six Degrees of Separation without wanting to curl up in her bathtub and cry until she’s just too tired. “Let them get someone else.” 

“Whoa.” Karsyn raises a hand, gets to his feet. “What are you taking about, B?” 

“Luxe is one of the premier magazines in the country, Kars. Any photographer would kill for this.” 

“Exactly. And they asked for you, Blake. This is the gig of the summer.” His phone beeps. He reaches into his pocket and brings it out, “Shit. I’m going to be late,” then points an index finger her way. “I’m calling you later. You don’t have to tell me what the fuck is going on, but I can’t just let you pass this up, B. I can’t.” 

Blake shakes her head, turning toward the floor-to-ceiling windows as he heads out. “Don’t speed,” she says. 

Karsyn mumbles something in return.The door clicks shut behind him. 

Outside, the sun has begun to set, casting a burnt orange glow across the skyline, white furniture in her living room soaking up every ounce of it. She’s never been one for sunsets—striking as they are—but this view is still her favorite. Los Angeles in all it’s grandeur, building and breaking her, reminding… 

There are far greater things than falling for someone who fell for someone else.