Picture Perfect by Jodi Picoult

wrapped her legs around it. Cassie narrowed her eyes, trying to recall a picture Alex had showed her yesterday from an album she’d put together in college. “Didn’t you used to be blond?” she said.
    The woman wrinkled her nose. “Like a zillion years ago. Jesus,” she said. “ What has gotten into you?”
    Alex crept up so quietly behind Cassie that the only indication she had of his approach was the darkening of the woman’s eyes. He was wearing only a towel knotted around his waist. “Ophelia,” he said coolly, tossing an arm around Cassie. “Nothing quite like seeing you first thing in the morning.”
    â€œYeah,” Ophelia snorted. “The pleasure is mine.”
    Fascinated, Cassie watched them, glancing at Ophelia again. No wonder she hadn’t felt threatened. The most beautiful woman Cassie had ever seen had shown up on her doorstep, but she paid as much attention to Alex as she did to her orange juice, and Alex only wanted to leave.
    Alex pointed to her black cast. “Tendinitis? Overexertion? Some other occupational hazard?”
    â€œFuck you,” Ophelia said lightly. “I slipped on a sidewalk.”
    Alex shrugged. “Could have been worse.”
    â€œWorse? I’m supposed to be shooting a commercial next week, a national commercial for Clorox, my right arm pouring bleach into a damn measuring cup—”
    â€œYou’re an actress too?”
    Cassie’s quiet question stopped Ophelia’s tirade. She flicked her eyes toward Alex. “What the hell did you do to her?”
    Alex smiled at Cassie, reassuring her. “You ever read the papers, Opie, or is that past your level of education?”
    â€œReading gives you crow’s feet. I watch the news on TV.”
    Alex leaned against the marble island in the center of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest. “Cassie got into some kind of accident last Sunday and hit her head. She was found by a cop in a graveyard, and she didn’t remember her name. She’s still just getting her memory back, in bits and pieces.”
    Ophelia’s eyes widened until Cassie could see a ring of white around the green. Then she turned to Alex. “How convenient for you,” she said. “No doubt you’ve painted yourself as a saint.”
    Alex ignored Ophelia’s comment, leaned over, and kissed Cassie’s forehead. “Her name’s Ophelia Fox, and it’s not her real one—but then there isn’t too much of her that’s real anymore. She’s a hand model; she was your best friend in college and your roommate when we first met, and as far as I can tell, she’s the only character flaw I’ve ever found in you.” He tightened the towel around his waist and headed toward the stairs. “And Ophelia,” he said, grinning, “if you’re real nice to me, I’ll autograph your cast.”
    Cassie wondered how an anthropology major would have ever met anyone like Ophelia Fox, but before she could even put the question into words, Ophelia came toward her. She ran her long, tapered fingers over the fading cut at Cassie’s temple. “Thank God,” she said. “I don’t think you’ll scar.”
    Cassie burst out laughing. That had been the least of her worries. She stepped back from Ophelia, scrutinizing her face, this time for recognition. “You’re beautiful,” she said honestly.
    Ophelia waved her hand in the air, dismissing the compliment. “My eyes are too close together and my nose twists a half-centimeter to the right.” She held out her good hand, pale, nearly hairless, capped by five sculptured nails with white moon tips. “Now these are beautiful. Each time, they use a little bit more of me. The last ad got up to my shoulder, so I figure it’s only a matter of time.”
    Even Alex, who Cassie figured was as big a star as they came, wasn’t as wrapped