to know that she’d enjoyed herself, but she lacked the memory of the proof. It seemed like a shame.
She rolled over and punched her pillow into shape. Vague, incomplete dreams were leaving her tired and grouchy in the mornings and, even worse, leaving her with a ghostly, frustrated feeling.
Maybe that was why she couldn’t quite shake the whole situation off: she wanted that memory and her brain was determined to wring out the tequila and find it. Maybe she wasn’t feeling guilty; maybe she was just confusing one nagging feeling with another.
And now she had to be hallucinating, because she could hear Donovan’s voice. She sat up. That wasn’t a hallucination; that really was Donovan’s voice, coming from her living room. What the hell? Shock rocketed through her as she heaved herself out of bed, covers flying. She was in the hallway before she caught herself in the middle of the ridiculous thought.
It was coming from the TV.
“Morning.” Callie sat on the couch, hugging a cup of coffee and watching the morning news. She was dressed already, her backpack on the coffee table, ready to go.
Although this was technically still Vivi’s house, Vivi had moved out six months ago, after news of her engagement to Connor hit the press. The little house on Frenchman Street just couldn’t provide the privacy and security Connor and Vivi needed. Lorelei had enjoyed the solitude for about two weeks, but had then offered Vivi’s old room to a friend-of-a-friend just so she’d have some company.
It hadn’t quite worked. Between Callie’s schedule and her latest romance with some guy she’d met at the library, she was rarely home. It was only slightly better than living alone.
Callie was a news junkie—the serious stuff, not the pop-culture and human-interest fluff—and now Donovan’s face filled the screen as he droned on about something being unconstitutional. Callie was rapturously hanging on every word, and Lorelei wondered if it was because anything unconstitutional was catnip for Loyola Law students or because the words were coming out of Donovan’s pretty face.
Lorelei wished she’d purchased a smaller, lower-quality TV, because the sight of Donovan in HD sent a jolt through her. She tried to brush it away and act casual as she continued to the kitchen and the coffeepot. She moved in slow motion, killing time, but Donovan was still talking—no surprise there, really; the man truly loved to hear himself talk. Finally she couldn’t stall any longer and had to go back out into the living room.
“No class today?” she asked as she took the other corner of the couch and settled in.
“The air-conditioning in the building is broken. They had to cancel classes.”
Lorelei nodded. The older buildings in New Orleans—those built before the invention of air-conditioning and designed for the heat—could sometimes be habitable, if not comfortable, in August, but not the newer buildings, with their low ceilings and windowless rooms.
“I’m meeting my study group at the library instead. What about you? Not going to the studio?”
“With Connor away, things are pretty slow at the moment. I’ll go in later and check messages and things, but a vacation for the boss is a vacation for the minions, as well.”
People might think that Connor had hired her as assistant and office manager for ConMan Studios out of pure nepotism—and that did have a little to do with it—but the truth was she was good at the job, much to everyone’s surprise. She’d finally started to earn a little respect; somehow her working for her brother-in-law impressed people more than just working for her father, even though the positions were very similar.
And she liked it, too. Who wouldn’t want to be part of a rock star’s entourage? It was exciting, and the high-profile nature of the job meant people knew she was actually earning her keep.
“I’m kind of glad things will be slow. Being Vivi for the next three weeks is going to be crazy enough.”
Callie nodded, but she wasn’t really listening. She still had most of her attention on the TV—where, thankfully, Donovan was wrapping up. “Donovan St. James is right. The city is just asking for a major lawsuit.”
Lorelei didn’t bother to ask about what. “I’ve always wondered how someone becomes a pundit,” she said in what she hoped sounded like idle curiosity. “Is there a degree program for that? A Bachelor’s in Talking Headism?”
Callie shrugged. “I think you just have to make a name for yourself in politics or journalism to prove that you’re smart enough to have something sensible to say, and then show that you’re articulate enough to say it on TV.”
“Then how did Donovan St. James get anointed?”
Callie looked at her like she was crazy. “Because he’s freaking brilliant.”
“So you say.”
“No, so says the world. Haven’t you ever read his column?”
“Not since he destroyed the DuBois and Dillard families.”
“They brought that on themselves. Corruption tends to bite you in the butt like that when it’s uncovered.”
Lorelei had sympathy for her friends’ families. It had rocked everyone’s world. “But Donovan seemed to enjoy it. He certainly got a lot of attention out of their misery.”
“That is what got him attention initially. But in the last three years that attention has grown because of his insightful analysis and dogged chasing of facts. When he comments on politics and issues, people listen. He’s syndicated in newspapers and on websites all over the country. That’s why he’s on TV all the time.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Hmm, it seemed she should have.
“Now you do. Should you decide to get more up-to-date on the rest of the world, his columns wouldn’t be a bad place to start. There’s an archive on his website. Good stuff there. I’ve even quoted him in some of my papers.”
Well, it seemed that Donovan had been out making a name for himself over the years and she’d been ignorant of the whole thing. Callie didn’t need to look so darn surprised. Just because she used to go to school with Donovan, it didn’t mean she was an expert on his life—or that she wanted to be.
Politics—and the blow-hard talking heads that covered it—gave her a headache. The news depressed her. She heard enough from Callie to keep her feeling at least as well-informed as the average citizen; she didn’t need to go looking for more than that.
Callie tossed the remote her way and grabbed her backpack. “I’m gone. Some of us might go grab some drinks after we’re done with study group. Want to come?”
“Thanks, but not tonight.” Her personal prohibition was still in place—the memory of Sunday morning was still too fresh even to consider breaking it.
“Call me if you change your mind. Bye.”
“Bye.”
A second later Callie reappeared. “Today’s paper.” She tossed it on the coffee table. “By the way, Donovan’s column runs in the editorial section—if you’re interested, that is.”
Once
