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asleep after she’d buckled in and cozied up with a blanket in the smallest first-class section she’d ever seen. It was now around seven in the morning, Pacific Standard Time, and her eyes were still heavy. She stretched, almost knocking off the large sunglasses that covered most of her face, then adjusted her floppy yet fashionable sun hat, which was pulled down over the tops of her ears. She may not have been a Rihanna or a Taylor, but she’d accumulated enough television time and fans to want to hide from the public when she wasn’t looking her best. “Where is everybody?” she asked no one, seeing the flight attendants descend the staircase, which had wheels underneath it.
    Charly turned toward the terminal where the flight attendants had instructed her to go before she’d departed the craft. An SUV pulled up behind her, pulling her attention as it zoomed, then screeched to a stop. She glanced at the large black vehicle, thinking it strange for an SUV to be on the runway, especially one that moved like it was from NASCAR. It had to be dangerous for anything with wheels, other than vehicles belonging to the airport, to be on the tarmac. She shrugged. So far everything about Las Vegas was a bit weird to her. Strange and desolate, she decided, looking around and getting a better view of her surroundings. She spotted only a few other planes and a handful of people walking around, most of them dressed in some sort of blah-colored airport gear.
    â€œExcuse me? Charly St. James?” a woman’s voice called from the direction of the black SUV.
    Charly turned back toward the vehicle and eased her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. The woman she’d set her eyes on was at least six-foot-two and dressed in a full business suit. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun and she looked like a mannequin. She was also young looking, and not grandmotherly like Mr. Day had described her chaperone. Charly didn’t know who she was, so she decided to be cautious. “Yes?” she answered, then hated that she did because immediately her head started to pound.
    A big smile spread across the woman’s face, and she began to walk over to Charly. “Ms. St. James, I’m Eden Gardens,” she said, nearing Charly in seconds, thanks to her long elegant strut.
    Charly nodded, then pursed her lips. She was trying to refrain from uttering the words whirling through her mind. Garden of Eden. “Oh . . . kay, and that means?” Charly said. She wasn’t trying to be rude, but she didn’t know the woman and she didn’t want to ask too many questions, because then she’d have to keep thinking and responding. She’d better be quiet or else it was going to pound even more.
    â€œThat means I’m your chaperone.” She smiled wider. “Didn’t they tell you I’d be here for you, sis?”
    Even though stretching her lips was a task because of being medicated, Charly returned the smile. This Eden Gardens may have been her chaperone, but she didn’t exude authority. Her referring to Charly as sis made Charly feel they were on equal ground. She didn’t feel like she had to be on guard or uneasy around her. Giving Eden the once-over, Charly appreciated the woman’s style, even though she questioned how the woman wasn’t sweating in the sweltering Las Vegas heat. Upon closer inspection, she found it hard to keep from calling her Garden of Eden because Eden, who’d looked like a mannequin when she was yards away, was almost a vision of perfection up close and her vibe was soothing. The woman had perfect skin, a build models would starve and beg for, and her smile radiated warmth and kindness. In a neat package, Eden exuded the confidence Charly wanted the girls on the show she was planning to have once she was finished making them over from the inside out. Eden also didn’t look old enough to be anyone’s chaperone. Charly