Chapter 2
2
Saturday
“You look awful,” my boss tells me the next afternoon at the end of my shift. Patricia is tall, thin, and more than a little mean. Take for instance the way she glares at small children. Sure, they can be shouty. But it isn’t easy to explain the concept of quiet in the library to a toddler. And sometimes being a book lover does mean attempting to eat them. Such is life. “Not that I don’t appreciate you covering Courtney’s shift. But are you certain you’re not also coming down with the flu? And what on earth happened to your hands?”
The dream of enjoying a lazy weekend after dancing the night away with my best friend is long gone. I am instead at work after approximately two and a half hours of sleep, much soul-searching, and no small amount of crying. Not that Josh deserves my tears.
It took a while to remove every trace of his presence from my apartment. Then, at three a.m. when he was finally gone, I donned my emotional-support hoodie and had a much-deserved breakdown. Just got it all out. And I solemnly promised myself this would be the last time it happened.
At least for a while.
Forget dating. I am focusing on my career for the foreseeable future. I turn thirty later this year, and there are things I want to achieve by then. A committed relationship was on the list...but oh well. Turns out you can’t schedule love. However, it’s not too late for the others: inching my way closer to managerial level, visiting the Bodleian Library in Oxford, England, eating my way through the pastry display case at my favorite bakery on La Brea, and learning how to keep a houseplant alive.
When I still couldn’t sleep, I had a stern talk with myself about Good Witch Willow. I am not superstitious, and I don’t believe in the paranormal. People cheat in relationships every day. The data relating to this is of course unreliable, but estimates suggest that up to 75 percent of people have cheated in some way at one time or another. My parents are the outliers, still being happily married after over thirty years and two children. Plenty of people come from single-parent homes and split families. All my friends have struck out relationship-wise at least once. I myself have been ghosted, disappointed, dumped, and duped. Without being bitter, I think it’s reasonable to acknowledge that finding the one is hard. If the one even exists. There is nothing spooky or mysterious going on in my life. Josh is just an asshole. End of story.
Despite the long night, when the request came from work to fill in for a sick colleague, I said yes. A distraction sounded great. I fortified myself with more painkillers, caffeine, and carefully applied makeup. Then I made my way back out into the world as a strong single woman.
“I had a little accident last night.” I hide my hands in my pockets and give my boss my best fake smile. “But I’m fine. Just fine.”
“If you say so,” she sniffs. “Can you stay a bit longer? Some items are about to be dropped off for a display. If you could handle that before leaving?”
“Not a problem, Patricia.”
“There was also another matter I wanted to quickly talk to you about.” She looks down the length of her nose at me. “I know you applied for Program Librarian last year and were disappointed when you didn’t get it. And of course, there was Acquisitions Supervisor before that.”
“Right.”
“Well, the position of Children’s Librarian will soon become available. Ming is moving to Chicago.”
“Really? That’s wonderful news. Not about losing Ming, of course. But Children’s Librarian...that would be perfect.”
Patricia’s answering smile is more of a grimace. Like positive emotions aren’t really her thing. But I don’t care. I could hug the woman right now. Though that would be wildly awkward for both of us.
Take that, Good Witch Willow. Talk about being validated. I didn’t expect to have further proof that her late-night sidewalk prophesies were rubbish until the lotto draw tonight. But this is great. My boss has given me a heads-up, and she’s supporting my bid for promotion, going directly against what Willow said. It’s honestly like a weight has been taken off my shoulders. You know when you’ve been worrying about something in the back of your mind while telling yourself it’s okay the entire time? This is exactly that.
“It would be ideal,” Patricia confirms. “You tend to have more patience with our younger patrons than some. But while you’re of course welcome to apply, just quietly between you and me, I have already spoken to Brian about him taking on the role.”
The smile of relief falls straight off my face. “You’ve already decided on Brian?”
“Not officially, of course. But I would hate for you to get your hopes up.”
It’s like time has slowed down. As if I can suddenly hear a clock ticking, counting down the hours left in my days. “Let me get this straight. You’ve already passed me over for the promotion before I even applied?”
The woman sucks on her teeth. A solid sign of irritation. “Lilah, you have to understand—”
“What, that you don’t appreciate me and I shouldn’t have stayed here as long as I have?” I say in a tone somewhere between stunned and surprised. “Shit. She was right about this too.”
“Of course, staying or leaving is your choice to make,” says Patricia in her most strident tone. “But I’ll remind you that getting any sort of job in the library system in this city is extremely competitive. There are plenty of people with their Master of Library Science who have been volunteering and applying for years for positions such as yours.”
The woman is speaking nothing but the truth. But she still lost me mid-rant.
How was Willow right about this too? It’s impossible and improbable and fucking ridiculous. What are the odds of Josh cheating on me and me being overlooked for a promotion all within such a short time span? There are coincidences and then there are clusterfucks. Which is what my life is suddenly turning out to be.
“Lilah?” Patricia asks impatiently. “Are you listening?”
“No.”
She splutters in outrage, and I ignore her.
My mind is a mess. A swirling, whirling storm of what-ifs. I can’t die in eight days. I have things to do. Deep breaths don’t help, and calm thoughts do nothing. I am sweaty and stressed out to the nth degree. This might well be my first-ever panic attack. If I could just stop the downward spiral and think things through logically, it still might be okay. I mean, it all comes down to tonight’s lotto draw. Say I only get one or none of the numbers, then there’s my answer. It’s been nothing more than a couple of truly awful coincidences. But if I happen to get more right than that...
“You’re right, Patricia. I think I am coming down with the flu,” I say as I grab my bag. “I should go.”
She gives me the death glare reserved for rule breakers. Patrons who write on or dog-ear pages. But, alas, I am immune.
Death isn’t something I tend to dwell on. My father likes to point out that people worry about what happens after they die but don’t give much thought to where they were before they were born. A philosopher named Epicurus said as much. This always seemed kind of profound to me. Like if we were fine wherever we were before we were born, odds are we’ll be fine wherever we go after we’re dead.
I have approximately two hours until the lotto numbers are drawn. Until I find out my fate. Of course, my rational mind refutes all this nonsense. Won’t even give it the time of day despite the possible evidence starting to stack up. I sit in my old Prius in the parking lot and inspect my skull. Give it a good going-over searching for any lumps or bumps. Because if I cracked my head last night when I hit the pavement, it would explain a hell of a lot. A concussion can cause all sorts of problems and make you imagine the strangest things.
But there’s nothing. All I do is mess up my hair.
Time to calm down. I should go home and fill in the spaces left by my ex. Spread my belongings back around. It might help to give me a feeling of control. I turn on the engine, buckle up my seat belt, reverse out of the parking spot, and maneuver through the lot.
Home sounds good. I’ll read a book and rest my sore hip. Ooh. I could get takeout. Now there’s an idea. There’s nothing fajitas can’t fix.
When the radio starts playing a moment later, however, it’s a love song. Our song. The one that was on high rotation last summer when Josh and I met. Gah. Make it stop. Have I not suffered enough? The answer is apparently no, since stabbing hard and fast at the buttons only succeeds in cranking up the volume to a deafening level.
The thing is, taking your eyes off the road for more than a moment isn’t a good idea. It’s just not recommended. There’s a reason why you’re supposed to watch where you’re going. Because despite managing to shut down the damn noise, I look up to find myself deep in the shit. In the wrong lane with a car coming toward me. We’re so damn close I can see the man’s brows jump high in surprise above his sunglasses.
I screech as the car sensors start blaring. The muscles in my arms strain as I turn the steering wheel sharply to the side. Just veer the vehicle the fuck on over. And it would have been fine if I’d just gone back into my lane. But no. I turn the wrong way and crash straight into a concrete post with a bang .
The airbag smacks me in the face, shoving me back against the car seat before deflating with a prolonged hissing noise. It almost drowns out the ringing in my ears. My nose hurts, but I don’t think it’s broken. All I can do is sit and stare at the crumpled hood. My poor car is ruined. Just absolutely trashed. At least I was still in the parking lot and not driving too fast. I have no new injuries—that I am aware of. It’s as positive a spin I can put on such a shit show.
“Are you all right? Can you hear me?” asks a deep male voice with an accent that can only be described as posh but not. A blend of British high society and Scottish brogue. Thank you, romance movies, for teaching me which is which. Christmas rom-coms with lots of snow, and European settings in particular. It’s the dude with the sunglasses who I almost ran into. He raps his knuckles on the driver’s-side window to be sure he has my attention. “Miss, do you need help?”
An awful mechanical grinding sound comes from deep within the door when I try to lower the glass. Excellent. I push on the door, and he opens it wide before taking a step back and giving me space. He is tall with fair skin and dark stubble. But most of his face is hidden behind black sunglasses and a baseball cap.
“I’m fine,” I say, climbing out of the remains of my car. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Are you all right?”
He just nods.
Paul from security is jogging through the parking lot toward us. How do I even explain this? A meltdown due to a music malfunction? Fuck my life. Seriously.
The man with the sunglasses wanders back to his own vehicle. He almost looks a little like... No. That would be whatever word is beyond ridiculous . I know I am not dealing well when I start misplacing words. Not good. The man licks his lips and turns away as if he needs a moment. “You almost hit my car.”
“But I didn’t.”
“But you almost did,” he says tersely. The vehicle in question is old, silver, and streamlined—a thing of beauty. Another damn sports car. Why do luxury vehicles suddenly seem to have it in for me? I can see why he would be upset at the thought of it being damaged. However, my vehicle is destroyed and my day has been awful. I am the clear winner in this situation. Or loser, as the case may be. But this doesn’t stop his lips from flatlining in unhappiness. “You almost hit me .”
“And yet the fact remains that I didn’t. I missed you and hit the concrete bollard instead. Didn’t I?”
Nothing from him.
“Didn’t I?”
People obviously don’t often contradict him. Because it takes him an overly long moment to admit, “Yes. You did.”
“Thank you.”
He stares at me and I stare right back at him. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing behind those dark glasses. It’s no joke to say the man is fire. He has to be a model or an actor or something. Though almost everyone is in this town. Stubble lines a jaw that could win architectural awards. His car and clothes scream quiet luxury. A simple modern black leather jacket with matching jeans, tee, and boots. And they’re all low-key, classy, and well cut.
Paul slowed down and is talking to someone on his cell phone. I hope it’s not the police or Patricia. It’s probably just him reporting to the security office that there’s been an accident. Fingers crossed.
On the bright side, Good Witch Willow didn’t see this one coming. There was no prophecy about crashing my car. It could almost be taken as a positive if you didn’t look at it too closely. And right now, I need all the doubt I can rally when it comes to her and her skills of divination.
“Your vehicle doesn’t look good,” says the tall, dark, and handsome stranger. “It’ll need to be towed.”
“Yeah.”
He sighs and with an air of great reluctance asks, “Do you have a safe way home?”
“I’ll sort something out. Thanks.”
“Right.” He nods. “I should go, then.”
“Okay.”
He nods again, and this time I can feel his gaze on me. The weight of his regard. I have to say, the sensation is not unpleasant. Then he takes off his sunglasses.
People talk about where they were when some momentous historic event occurred. How it imprinted on them. A pristine memory unlike any other. They remember exactly where they were when they heard the news and how they felt—and they never forget. Because suddenly their life was divided into before and after. This is one of those moments for me.
Alistair George Arthur Lennox, the illegitimate son of the king of England, has eyes the same shade as the blue spring sky. The one I drove to work beneath not so long ago. Such a beautiful color. His gaze immediately turns wary. Like he’s used to being recognized and it doesn’t make him happy. Meanwhile, the clock inside my head is back and ticking louder than before.
“Noooo. You’re not him.” I take one step back and then another, until I am backed up against my car, scared and cornered with nowhere to go. “You’re not. You’re someone else. Because if you were him it would mean what the witch said was right and I... No. You’re not you. Absolutely not.”
His heavy brows draw tight together. “What are you talking about?”
“I said no.”
“Are you okay?” Paul from security puffs out his chest. “Is this guy bothering you, Lilah?”
“Everything is fine,” I say, diving back into my car. My insurance details are in the glove box. “Here you go. That’s what you need, right?”
Paul juggles my license, car keys, and insurance paperwork. “Yeah.”
“I’ve never been in an accident before. But no one is hurt and nothing is damaged apart from my car.”
“Right. I’ll, ah, call my friend who owns a tow truck. Have it taken to a garage so it can be assessed.”
“That sounds great. Do I need to go with it?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll send you the details so you can fill out your accident report online.”
“What’s your number?” I ask. “I’ll text you so you have mine.”
He rattles off the digits.
“Thank you so much, Paul.”
He blushes. “No big deal. People have accidents here all the time. They don’t leave enough room in parking lots for people to maneuver anymore.”
“They really don’t. Thank you so much for understanding.” I can feel the other man’s eyes on me. But I refuse to spare him so much as a glance. Nope. Not happening. “I’ll be at the bar in the restaurant on the corner if you need me.”
“You’ll be in the... Okay,” Paul is saying.
But I’m already gone.