The Prada Paradox by Julie Kenner Page A

are only good for target practice.)

    I’m itching to start shopping. Although my bank account runneth over, I rarely buy anything on these outings (well, except at Prada, but that’s because of my own personal weakness), but I’m a die-hard window shopper.

    The light changes, and we cross with the rest of the throng, a combination of locals and tourists. A few do a double take when they see me, but most are oblivious. I look cute, but compared to most of the shoppers, I’m hardly dressed to the nines. And I scrubbed off my makeup before I left the set. Hard-core fans and paparazzi will know me on sight. Everyone else, though? To them, I’m just another face in the crowd.

    I know it’s not cool to be in love with your town, but I really do love Los Angeles, and Beverly Hills most of all. I mean, there’s anisland of tall trees right in the center of Wilshire. Clearly, this is a town concerned about aesthetics.

    We reach the other side, and Lindy stops dead, making me (and a dozen or so shoppers) almost stumble over her. “What the—”

    “Here,” she says, taking me by the arm. She turns us around so that we’re facing Wilshire again, right back the way we came.

    “Hey! We haven’t even shopped yet.”

    “Just read.” One elegant finger extends, indicating the Panic Button sign that someone has helpfully mounted where the standard Push to Walk should be. “Total Crisis Panic Button,” it says. For the standard white walking man symbol, you’re instructed, “Start running…Danger is imminent!” When the hand starts to flash, that means, “Don’t think! Stay fearful and alert!” And when the red hand stays solid, you need to “Obey orders.”

    It’s a professional-looking sign, printed on thick metal and firmly attached with screws. In Beverly Hills, it seems, even the grafitti has style.

    I’ll admit the thing amuses me, but I manage to keep a straight face. “And you’re showing me this because…?”

    “You’re panicking,” she says, as tourists flow around us. “And you don’t need to be.” She turns around, takes my arm, and starts walking up Rodeo. For a moment, I walk beside her in confused silence. And then I realize: she’s talking about tomorrow’s scenes with Blake.

    “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

    “I’m a hard-nosed bitch lawyer,” she says with a perfect deadpan. “I don’t do touchy-feely.”

    “Yeah,” I say, hiding a smile. “I noticed.”

    The truth is, just by reassuring me, she is doing touchy-feely. She knows how weird I get about my acting. Couple that with my general neurosis about Blake, and I’m a walking time bomb.

    She hooks her arm through mine and gives me a friendly squeeze. “Dev, sweetie, all you need to nail a scene is an actor to play against that you trust. You may not trust him in a relationship anymore, but I know you trust him professionally. Blake’s a good guy. He’s solid. And you two are going to sizzle on the screen.”

    I want to press her for more, but I don’t. Because she’s right. Ido trust Blake. Or at least, I did. Before Blake, I’d never truly had a real, serious relationship with a man. It was just too hard getting past all the celebrity stuff. I love my life—don’t get me wrong—but finding the time for a relationship was just as hard as finding a guy who wasn’t either jealous or awed by my money and fame. I’d been burned a couple of times early on, and by the time I hit twenty-two, I realized there just weren’t that many men out there that I could put my faith into.

    After the attack, I didn’t even try to date. I was nervous and jittery around everyone, but men especially. Blake, though…Well, somehow he eased in through the cracks in my heart. Slowly at first, and then so much that I let down my defenses. He was there. It felt right. And I truly believed that I had finally found a man who truly loved me. A man who could soothe my fears and share my life. A man I could trust with my heart.

    I was wrong, though, and that miscalculation was one