Chapter 4
4
“You cannot be serious,” Alistair interrupts me. He’s such an entitled prick. Though the Scottish half of his accent gets stronger when he’s wound up. Which is hot.
I don’t really know much about his background. The bulk of it happened before I was born and on the other side of the world. How the future king of England was dating someone deemed unsuitable. Then she disappeared from the London scene, and nothing was heard from her for years. Not until news of her (mostly) secret baby was revealed. Then the press all but badgered them out of the United Kingdom. It must have been awful for them. I remember Mom saying once that it was all anyone could talk about. Even on this side of the Atlantic.
His mother moved them from her ancestral home in the Highlands to California when he was in his teens. But there’s no trace of the Golden State in his speech. “He killed his own father for no good reason. There is no coming back from that.”
“But he sacrifices himself in the end.”
“I don’t care.”
“Of course, if they got married, she’d probably keep her own surname. Otherwise, imagine having to answer the phone at work.”
He just shakes his head. Even the way he sips his coffee is graceful, in a brisk, efficient sort of way. There’s this confidence about him. “I can’t believe you’re telling me that all it takes for you to be okay with murder is for the killer to have muscles and floppy hair.”
“You have muscles and floppy hair.”
“I haven’t killed anyone lately.”
“But you also haven’t been in the situation that character was in. That I’m aware of, at least.”
He gives me a long look. “You’re problematic.”
“I am not problematic.” I scoff. “Well...maybe a little bit. But that’s beside the point. These are fictional characters we’re talking about. Kylo Ren is not a real person, and neither is Rey. We’re discussing Star Wars. An imaginary science-fiction universe, remember?”
He shakes his head and sneers. “I will never understand the allure of bad boys.”
“Um. Excuse me. You just finished telling me Han Solo was your favorite.”
“That’s different. He’s an antihero.”
“I see. Do you consider yourself to be a bad boy?”
“I’m thirty-eight years old. I’m a grown man.” Such indignation. He scowls and turns away. “Don’t believe everything you see on the gossip sites.”
“Like I follow you online. Come back when you’re Beyoncé.” A last lonely drop emerges from the bottle when I try to pour myself another glass of champagne. “Oh, it’s empty. How sad. As I was saying, people need to be free to explore new things in a safe manner through story. To expand upon their experiences and view the world through different eyes. That’s what was so remarkable about the invention of the printing press. It brought the struggles of the lower classes into the drawing rooms of the wealthy for the very first time.”
“I love it when you lecture me.”
I laugh and he smiles and yikes . The way it makes my tummy turn upside down.
“Excuse me, Your Highness?” A teenage girl is standing behind us with her cell phone in hand.
Alistair’s whole demeanor changes. His shoulders stiffen and his face falls. “You don’t have to call me that. I’m not, strictly speaking, one of them.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Just Alistair is fine.”
She blushes. “Could I take a selfie with you?”
“Sure,” he says gently. Though his smile as she snaps the picture is strained at best. The girl runs off back to her table, and his fingers tap agitatedly against the top of the bar. It must be weird to be famous for just being born. “Don’t you have someone you can call to come down here and wait with you?”
“It’s my best friend’s birthday today. I don’t want to ruin it with all of this. Same goes for my family. Just let them enjoy their weekend. I don’t want to tell them until I know what’s going on. Maybe not even then. I don’t know. I haven’t thought it all through yet.” I paste a smile on my face. “It was kind of you to stay. But it’s okay for you to go.”
“You’ll be alone.” This is the second time he’s said this. Like it’s a sticking point for him. “It’s not long now until the draw.”
“I don’t mind my own company.”
A line appears between his dark brows, but he says nothing. Not at first. “I hate that you’re so worried. That you’re even giving this bullshit the time of day.”
“You don’t even know me. I’m just a random stranger, Ali. Can I call you Ali?”
“I would very much appreciate it if you never called me that again.” He signals to the bartender and says, “She needs another bottle of champagne.”
“Those things are expensive. Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Why is it so surprising that someone would be nice to you?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question. It’s obnoxious.”
He gives me an amused look. He has many of them. Though they do generally tend more toward dismay than delight. “I am curious about how all of this turns out. I like hearing about people’s lives. Tell me about your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. The one who cheated on you.”
“Ew.” I scrunch up my nose. “Why?”
He tosses a peanut in the air and catches it with his mouth. The man has skills. I’m a little surprised he would do something so déclassé.
“We’d been dating since last summer,” I say. “He was in sales. I thought we were ready to try living together, but apparently not.”
“That’s it?”
“What?”
“That dry statement of facts is how you sum up your most recent romantic relationship?”
The new bottle of champagne arrives. He was right. I do need it. I could give or take oxygen, but alcohol in this situation is a must. “Were you expecting me to cry?”
“I was expecting you to care.”
“Fuck you,” I say calmly and clearly. “I care very much that someone I trusted just betrayed me.”
He pauses. “I apologize. Of course you do. I shouldn’t have said that.”
I nod and accept his apology like a gracious queen.
“But just out of curiosity, did you love him?”
“You can’t ask things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Aren’t you people supposed to be all about good manners?” This is a fine time to dodge and evade to my heart’s content. My mouth, however, won’t shut up. In vino veritas. “No. I didn’t love him. I liked him and I liked us as a couple, and I thought that would be enough. Like more would come given time, you know?”
He nods and picks up another peanut.
“What about you?”
His face goes blank and he’s suddenly on guard. “What about me?”
It would seem I have put my foot in it. He is allowed to ask me personal questions, but it doesn’t work the other way. Interesting. Though what would I know about being Alistair George Arthur Lennox, who has the whole damn world watching his every move. Despite having his back to the restaurant, he continues to draw attention. The ma?tre d’ has asked several people to stop taking pictures.
“Well?” he asks in a cranky tone of voice.
“What’s your favorite book?”
“My favorite book? That’s what you want to know?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, he just stares at me. Then he says, “ Catcher in the Rye .”
“Ugh. You’re kidding me. No. That’s so...ugh.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating. There’s just so much wrong with that choice.”
“Is there now?” The corner of his mouth curves upward. “It’s all right, Lilah. I’m joking. It’s The Count of Monte Cristo or The Martian . They were both great.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank goodness.”
“So judgmental,” he tsks.
“Like you’re not.”
Having someone so pretty smiling at you makes it hard to care about anything. A bottle of champagne in your belly doesn’t hurt either.
“I shouldn’t have asked about your boyfriend if I wasn’t willing to share in kind,” he says in a low voice.
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore.” I pour myself another glass and think deep thoughts. “Why do you even believe my bizarre story about the witch?”
“I’ve known a lot of liars,” he says, taking his time and choosing his words carefully. “When you were talking about it you had this look. There was fear in your eyes.”
I frown. “I don’t like any of this.”
“Apart from the champagne.”
“I don’t like any of this apart from the champagne,” I correct.
“And me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just the champagne.”
“Then why did you specify that you were single?” he asks with a sly gaze. Like he’s caught me or something. Men are such idiots. Seriously.
“Do you think I’m flirting with you?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a smirk. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Ali. Sweetie.” I smile. “Let me assure you, I am not sizing you up for a rebound.”
“Your loss.” He shrugs. “It’s sort of my specialty.”
“How so?”
“I, ah...”
I wait. And then I wait some more. “You can’t just throw that out there and not give me details,” I finally say. “Come on.”
“I don’t know if I should talk about it.”
“Don’t be a tease.”
He grimaces and groans. Like he didn’t kick off the topic. “I have a tendency to be the one before the one. The penultimate partner, shall we say.”
“What proof can you offer?”
“Google it if you like. Fuck knows there’s been enough written about me.”
I think it over. “No. I don’t think so. I’d like to hear it from you.”
He gazes at me out of the corner of his eye for a minute. Like those internal scales of his are busy with the judging once again. Then he checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening. And finally, he says, “Eleven of my, shall we say, longer-term partners went on to get married straight after me.”
My eyes are as wide as can be. “Eleven?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I am not.”
“Wow. I feel like such a failure. I’ve only had four boyfriends ever, and one of those didn’t even last three months. You know, I’m not even sure I have eleven friends.” I stare at him in awe. Or something like that. Given the situation, I would rather not like the man, but he’s not making it easy. There’s the whole hotness thing, of course. But then he goes and compounds the issue by being so easy to talk to. Some of the time. Most of the time. It’s like we have our own little comfortable bubble of space at the end of the bar. “What kind of time period are we talking about here? How long were you with these people?”
He blows out a breath. “I don’t know. Say half a year and more. Three years at most.”
“Huh. Interesting. Would you call yourself a serial monogamist?”
“I don’t need to—you just did.”
“Do you consider yourself a good boyfriend?”
His chin jerks up. Arrogance has most definitely entered the conversation. “I am an excellent boyfriend or partner. The latter feels like a more adult term for the situation, if you don’t mind.”
“Have you been told that you’re an excellent partner, or are you just jumping to that conclusion because...”
“Because what?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I was hoping you’d finish the sentence.”
“I am not finishing that sentence.”
“Okay.” I lick my lips and his eyes track the movement. Which is interesting. “How many people have you dated in total?”
“I’m not answering that either.” He laughs softly. “But I will note that I think I’m older than you.”
“Yeah. But still...would you say that the bulk of your breakups were brought about by your own actions?”
“No comment.”
“How much downtime do you tend to have between partners? Are you actually comfortable on your own, or is that a problem for you?”
“Still no comment.”
“Were these relationships largely based on sex or friendship or what exactly?”
“You’re just going for broke now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Lilah,” he says in a chiding tone, “for shame. I’m beginning to think the second bottle of champagne was a mistake. Now give me the lotto ticket so I can check the numbers.”
It’s like he throws cold water in my face. All levity disappears without a trace. “It’s time?”
He nods somberly.
My hand is shaking as I search through my purse. Meanwhile, he pulls up the lotto website on his cell. And sure enough, it has been updated. “Read them out to me,” I say, holding the ticket. And now it’s shaking too.
There’s no dawdling or telling me it is going to be all right. He just gets down to business. “Five, eight, twelve, twenty-four, thirty-nine, and forty-three.”
The blood drains out of my face. I feel lightheaded, wooziness taking over. There is every chance I am about to vomit or faint or fuck knows what.
“Lilah?” he asks. When I don’t respond, he takes the ticket from my hand. His gaze roams over it, his face dead serious. “You got five numbers.”
“Yeah. I—I knew I didn’t remember them all.” I sound so calm, and yet my head is spinning in circles. “She rattled them off so fast, and I was a little distracted from almost getting hit by a car and being told that my boyfriend was cheating on me and so on. But five. Huh. Not bad.”
“Shit.” He grabs hold of my upper arm to hold me steady. “Lilah, you’re okay. It doesn’t mean anything. Apart from you having won some cash. You’re going to be fine. It’s just...”
“What. It’s just what?”
“It’s just five numbers,” he says in the same calm tone. “You have to be rational about this. It doesn’t mean you’re going to die.”
“Thank you for waiting with me.” I grab the bottle of champagne and hug it against my chest. Who cares about cold and damp? This baby is most definitely going to come in handy when I get home and have my second serious meltdown of the weekend. If I can just hold out until I get there. “But I think I should go now.”
“Don’t get a car,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
As soon as we step outside, a bright light blinds me. It’s the flash from a camera. The paparazzo is a stout figure dressed in all black. “Is this your new girl, Alistair? What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I give him serious stink eye. Random endearments from strange men will never not be gross.
My companion ignores him completely and keeps his body between me and the photographer at all times. With a hand to my lower back, he ushers me along the sidewalk to where his car is parked. Guess he decided the parking lot was too dangerous. He opens the passenger-side door and I climb inside. Whatever sort of car it is, it’s compact. It has leather seats and an immaculate interior. Lord knows what it’s worth.
The paparazzo keeps taking shots, both visual and verbal. “Heard from your father lately? How about the Prince of Wales’s engagement? Do you think you’ll get an invitation to the wedding?”
The demanding voice is only drowned out when Alistair shuts the driver’s-side door and starts the engine. He only had the one glass of champagne, so he is fine to drive. And he wastes no time in leaving.
“Sorry about that,” he mutters.
“Not your fault.”
“Where do you live?”
I give him the address, then sit and stare straight ahead and do not think. A nice calm, empty mind, that’s what we want. In the small confines of the car, however, I’m suddenly overly aware of the male sitting beside me. Better I fixate on him than my apparent dire fate. Being famous doesn’t seem half as much fun as I thought. It’s a good thing I set aside my childhood dreams of becoming a pop star. Not being able to sing worth a damn helped cement the decision. But being stalked and harassed the way Alistair is must suck. He doesn’t say a word during the drive either. Not until we arrive outside my apartment building. Home sweet home.
“Thank you,” I say, opening the door and climbing out. Which is especially hard to do from a low sports car when you’re clutching a bottle of champagne. But what does dignity matter in the face of imminent death?
“You’re not going to die,” he says.
“We all have to someday.”
He gives me one of those long looks he seems to specialize in. No idea what he’s thinking. The man is a mystery. His blue eyes are subdued in the low lighting, and the sharp angles and planes of his face are cast in shadow. “Take care of yourself, Lilah.”
I nod and close the car door, and that’s that.