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correcting her but not recalling the movie even if somehow the actress’s name slips from my lips.
    “That’s right—Julia, of course it is. Such a pretty girl. Where’s she got to these days? Ya never see her anymore in films. Must be aging something fierce and hiding away.”
    I chuckle. “I don’t know.” I don’t even know how I got her name out of the mud that is my mind. I can’t even recall her face or if she looks like me.
    “Well, we will have to put that in the window, what with the Christmas parties starting soon. Ya should get this one for Derek’s.”
    I nod blankly. “It’s nearly Christmas party time again?”
    “Don’t get me started on how fast the days are going. I’m nearly single again and almost forty. It’s depressing.” She turns and stalks back to the front of the store, leaving me to wallow in the puddle of my emotions.
    The remainder of the day involves high-pitch squealing from Angie as she unpacks the inventory as though she has never seen it before, regardless of the fact she went to the shows and picked all the dresses, and me pretending to work.
    When I get home I Google
Samantha Barnes, Ronald Armstrong, and Berkeley
, almost desperate to come across a photo of them together. There are many of him but none of her. The images of him are tags from Facebook and other social media. Samantha has none. Her name tags several other people with the same name.
    It drives me to Google the thing I have avoided since I got home. The death. The murder is all over the news.
    The pictures show a white van, several police, a scene taped off near some bushes, and a body bag.
    The sight of it makes me ill just as Derek comes in the door with food. He puts it down on the stove, grinning at me. “I got Indian.”
    I close the laptop and walk into the kitchen, trying desperately not to let the death of someone I didn’t know make me crazy.
    He pauses, seeing the look on my face, which he reads like a book regularly. “What?”
    “The man who called me Samantha Barnes was murdered in a park.”
    He cocks an eyebrow. “What?”
    “Ronald Armstrong—he was killed in the park. He’s the murder victim on the news.”
    Derek leans on the counter, running his hands through his dark-blond hair. “Jane, what are you talking about?” His eyes fill with worry. I hate it when he looks at me that way.
    “Remember, I told you how there was a case of mistaken identity with Samantha Barnes? The dead man is the one who mistook me for her. And now he’s dead.”
    His eyes narrow. “Baby, he’s dead, but it doesn’t have a single thing to do with you. The correlation is probably between him andbeing at the park at night. Maybe he was into drugs. It was Denny Blaine Park, wasn’t it? That’s a dark park at night.”
    “I know. I didn’t mean I caused it.” I don’t know why I said it that way. I don’t know why Ronald has affected me the way he has.
    Derek smiles wide. I can see mocking thoughts roaming his head just by the grin on his face. But he doesn’t entertain them. He abandons the bags, walks to me, and scoops me up. My legs wrap around his waist as his hands cup my ass cheeks. When our lips meet, my eyes close and everything else is blocked out. I run my hands up his neck into his hair, gripping it.
    Something comes over me.
    He tries to carry me to the bed to pay homage at the temple, but I grab the door frame, swinging him toward the couch. I struggle from his arms, pushing him onto the couch when I touch the carpet. I lift my shirt off, yank my pants down and kick them across the room, and climb onto his lap. He looks confused but I ignore it.
    My fingers savagely pull his shirt off, forcing him to work with me, and position his head to kiss along my neck. Abruptly, I sit up, admiring him. His perfection is overwhelming. He’s sculpted and hard in every place a man ought to be. I slide my hands over him as I rain kisses down his chest and abs. When I go to kneel between his legs, my