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She is barefoot, tan, and very blonde, her hair cut into a short bob.

The house—a convincingly faux-Tuscan villa, with five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a gym, a theater, and a hair-and-makeup room (“Thank for Jessica Simpson,” says Lawrence of the previous owner)—is exactly as old as Lawrence herself.

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Here I stumble into a subject that I wouldn’t have dreamed of bringing up so soon: the nude-photo leak.

It was exactly a year ago that hackers stole photos from Lawrence’s i Cloud account and posted them on the Web, an episode she labeled a “sex crime.” Her mother was visiting with a new puppy when the news broke.

“I’m not cheap, but I don’t want to waste even .” Is there anything she indulges in? Lawrence stares at the screen for a split second and then looks at me. She texts Talley, trying to find the number of the pizza joint she loves. And I’ve made friends with Mila and Ashton, two doors down. Michael Fassbender recently taught her how to make a dirty martini, which she is eager to try out.

She just turned 25 a few weeks ago, with a party here; her friends persuaded Kris Jenner to come and present Jen with a cake in the shape of a pile of poop that read, “My knees buckled,” says Lawrence.

“And then I got hammered and talked to her like I think I’m part of the family.”The house had been renovated just before she bought it, so all Lawrence had to do was fill it with furniture.

“We have to wrap this up because I have an interview with Jonathan Van Meter.” She laughs. She orders us a large pie, with pepperoni and jalapeño with ranch dressing on the side (not nearly as bad as it sounds). She asks me to grab a couple of glasses out of the cabinet, which is not bare, exactly, but close.

In a few days, Lawrence will fly to Atlanta, where she will begin working after some well-deserved time off. “I need a whole houseful of stuff,” she says as she swirls vermouth in a glass. Her career is unprecedented on every level: the smart choices, the awards, the box-office clout, the near-universal lovability.

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I am holed up in my hotel room on Sunset Boulevard watching tennis, drapes drawn against the remorseless sun, when suddenly: Ding! She sends her driver, Paul, a South African with a mellifluous voice, to pick me up, and before long, we are winding our way up, up into the Hills of Beverly, to the gated community where Lawrence lives in a house she bought last year for about $8 million.