Eventually, when Taylor got to college and teamed up with Valerie and Kate, her friends convinced her to get rid of the out-of-date glasses and tomboy ponytail. One rainy Saturday morning, Val even managed to talk her into a makeover. The results had surprised not only Kate and Val, but Taylor herself. The three of them, using their fake IDs, had gone out to the campus bars that night, and it had taken Taylor all of about fifteen seconds of obvious male appreciation to decide that her new look was one she could live with.

Nevertheless, as is often the case despite a person’s latter achievements, Taylor’s high school “smart girl” label stuck with her into adulthood, and she still blushed whenever a good-looking guy told her she was attractive.

Which was exactly what she did right then, hearing Scott’s compliment.

“Thank you,” she smiled modestly. “It’s sort of an arrangement Jason made with the tabloids. They can’t publish any pictures that identify me.”

“Hence the ‘mystery’ part,” Scott said cutely.

Taylor studied him curiously. He didn’t exactly seem like the kind of guy who often used the word “hence.” Was it possible that he—Scott Casey—was actually trying to impress her?

She decided to throw out a little test.

“But now the mystery is out. Unless . . . I can trust you to keep my secret safe?” she asked in a deliberately flirtatious tone.

Scott instantly took the bait. “Absolutely.” He grinned at her, all boyish charm. “On one condition: that you tell me all about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” Taylor shrugged innocently. Damn, it felt good to be flirting. The hell with cheating fiancés and ex-wedding nights and brilliant blue-eyed Sexiest Men Alive going on sex romps to wine country with their gorgeous blonde toothpick costars.

“Well, for starters, how long have you and Jason been seeing each other?”

Taylor scoffed at this. Perhaps a little too vehemently.

“We’re not dating,” she said definitively. “Jason and I are just . . . business associates.”

Scott looked deep into her eyes, taking another step closer. “Are you sure about that?”

Taylor nodded. “I’m positive.”

He grinned.

“Then maybe, Mystery Woman, you should start by telling me your name.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, after the last of the party guests had straggled out, Jason fell asleep thinking about how perfectly the evening had gone. He pushed aside all of Jeremy’s annoying negativity: So what if he had to trick Taylor into admitting her feelings? In the long run, none of that would matter.

After letting Taylor stew for a day or two, he would put into effect the second half of his plan: he would sweep in, assure her that Naomi meant nothing to him, that she was the only woman he thought about. And Taylor, in turn, having already implicitly admitted her feelings with the jealous look, would have to concede her loss and have no reason not to explicitly admit her feelings as well.

But despite the fact that everything was smoothly falling into place, Jason had a terrible dream that night.

He dreamt that he was back at the party. He knew Taylor was there, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally he spotted her at a secluded table in the garden, drinking a glass of wine that he knew came from Napa Valley. But Taylor wasn’t alone. Sitting next to her—too close to her—and wearing some sort of weird painter’s beret was Brad Pitt. For some reason, Taylor kept calling him Jason.

Jason called her name, but Taylor ignored him. He tried walking over to her, but a stone wall suddenly popped out of the ground like a medieval fortress. Then Brad grinned and held out his hand and led Taylor into the house. Jason watched the two of them through the windows; he saw them head up to his bedroom, and he shouted for Taylor to stop. But nobody could hear him except for Jeremy, who popped out of nowhere dangling upside down from a tree while wearing a court jester’s costume and giggling something about the party being over. Then Jeremy’s laugh turned maniacal and he flung his cigarette into some nearby bushes. Walls sprung up all around Jason, closing him in, and he had no choice but to watch helplessly as his beautiful twelve-thousand-square-foot French Normandy-style house burst into flames and burned to the ground.

Jason woke up with a start.

Gasping for breath, he shook the nightmare off and tried to clear his head. Parched with thirst, he got up and gulped down a glass of water in the kitchen. He peeked through his windows and briefly opened the back door just to make sure he didn’t smell any smoke.

But by the time he got back into bed, Jason was once again convinced that all was right with the world. As his head hit the pillow, he smiled at the sheer ridiculousness of his dream.

Brad Pitt. Jason almost laughed out loud at the thought.

He wished he was Jason Andrews.

Eighteen

THREE DAYS LATER, satisfied that he had given Taylor sufficient time to see the error of her ways, Jason headed up the walkway of her apartment building with a spring in his step.

Whistling merrily, he knocked on the front door. He grinned, thinking how Taylor’s dreams were about to come true. And his, too, finally—he’d certainly waited long enough.

Jason heard footsteps, and the front door flew open. Taylor greeted him in the doorway, wearing jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt. Her face broke into a wide smile when she saw him. He had been expecting this very reaction, of course.

“Hey! Come on in,” Taylor beamed enthusiastically.