Chapter 7
7
Monday
After an hour of working on the wish list, I curl up in my preferred spot (a surprisingly comfortable old black leather armchair I found in a vintage store) with Slave to Sensation by Nalini Singh. New adventures over the next week sound great, but so does visiting with old favorites. The books, music, and movies that helped make me.
There are many reasons for rereading a story. To remind us of special times. To revisit characters who feel like best friends. To wander again through worlds that thrill and delight. Fiction has always been an escape from reality. When you know what’s coming, however, books also become a place of absolute safety and comfort.
I read until the early hours. It’s easy to forget how quiet it gets when the night’s slipping away but it’s not yet morning. How silent and still everything is once the world goes to sleep. Feeling like you might be the only one awake is a small and curious sort of magic. Until some drunk down the block starts yelling and kills the vibe. That’s when I know it’s time for bed.
Much later that morning, I walk to my favorite local café for the best breakfast burrito. Scrambled eggs, black beans, ham, Monterey Jack cheese, guacamole, and salsa on a white-flour tortilla. With strong coffee, of course. The joy this breakfast brings to my mouth and belly cannot be underestimated. It truly is the simple things in life sometimes. I follow it with some online snooping into Alistair Lennox.
I could lie and say it’s purely educational. Knowing what topics to avoid would be useful when dealing with him. But let’s be honest, it’s just me being nosy. But also, when your life is out of control, you look for ways to cope. And research is an old and proven coping mechanism of mine.
The monarchy isn’t my thing, and I was too young to remember the scandal when Alistair was born. However, I do know the basics of the story due to Mom. She loves a good scandal.
Lady Helena was a staple of the London scene in the eighties. A socialite who worked as model and muse for a major fashion label, she dominated the social pages and gossip columns for years. And she was often seen in the company of a certain bachelor prince. Then one day she disappeared. Of course, the rumors flew. But nothing was known about her or her secret baby, not for a long time.
Over a decade later, an anonymous tip to the gossip rags turned her and her child’s world upside down. Suddenly everyone knew the now happily married heir to the throne had an illegitimate son. Public interest in the story was intense. The British press hounded them day and night. That’s when Alistair and his mother left her family estate in Scotland and escaped to America.
How fucking awful. No wonder the man has issues.
The more recent information about him isn’t as clear. After college, he served for two years as a marine before being wounded in combat. Guess he became an American citizen at some point. But after he was discharged, he and some friends formed a tech company. They’re involved in game development and have apparently been successful.
He’s dated a wide variety of women. Both famous and not. It seems his father disapproved of each and every one to varying degrees. Though little is known about their actual relationship. The king has never publicly discussed him. Never confirmed that Alistair is his son. But the rest of the world has plenty to say on the subject.
There are dozens of photos of Alistair at parties and events with lots of beautiful people. He’s even smiling occasionally. Some of the pictures are him striding about looking serious, taken by paparazzi as he was just going about his life. And then there’s the selection of shots taken with long-range lenses. Such as him in his bathing suit on a beach or relaxing on a hotel balcony with a drink. He is, of course, disgustingly handsome in all of them. Shame on him.
None of this offers any clues to why he’s spending time with me. Not to be hard on myself, but I am an anomaly in this picture. When it comes to Alistair, I think Good Witch Willow was wrong. Which is both good and bad. Good that I might live past Sunday. Bad that I won’t get the boy. Not that I ever really thought I would. Guys like him don’t choose girls like me. It is a fact of life.
There have been no further news items in the Daria Moore situation. Guess they’re waiting for someone more famous to do something newsworthy. The gossip sites are mostly regurgitating yesterday’s articles and shots about us, along with a few new theories about who the mystery woman might be. One article claims we’ve eloped to the Caribbean. Another posits that Daria is pregnant. They all declare that the king is furious at Alistair for his reckless bachelor ways. Again. Stress would have done the king in years ago if he actually did all the raging about the palace that the media claim.
By the time three o’clock approaches, I am ready to roll in gray plaid high-waist trousers with a pair of flat black booties and a fitted pale blue tee. My hair is tied back in a low ponytail and my makeup is immaculate. Definite main-character energy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ali.
Outside.
I reply: Coming.
I grab my sunglasses and purse and head out. There’s a humming in my blood. A mixture of nerves and the sensation you get when you just know something is going to be good. And Alistair does not disappoint. I doubt he even knows how to. A beyond beautiful shiny black convertible with a white leather interior is parked at the curb. He leans against it like he’s in a movie, and the whole scene makes my heart beat faster. But I’m sure that’s just because he’s making a dream come true. Growing actual feelings for this man would be a bad idea. I might die in six days; I don’t have time for a crush on Prince Charming.
When he sees me walking down the cracked concrete pathway, he gives me a brief smile. As if his happiness is only meted out in small doses. “Got your scarf?”
“Yes, I do,” I say with a giddy smile. There will come a day when his accent will no longer thrill me. When I will learn to gird my loins against him. Today, however, is not that day. “Nice car.”
“Ferrari GTO California Spyder Revival.” He opens the passenger-side door for me. “Glad you approve.”
“Thank you for this.”
He gives me one of his signature stiff nods.
“No photographers?” I ask, looking both ways down the street.
“There were a couple, but I lost them on the way.”
“Guess you’re good at that sort of thing.”
We don’t talk as he drives through the city and toward the coast. Not at first. He keeps giving me these side glances with a faint frown. As if he can’t quite believe he is here in this car doing this with me. Which makes two of us. But eventually I can stand the silence no more.
“I got some good work done on my wish list after you left last night,” I say. “Then I read a book for a while.”
He nods.
“And this morning I went out for the best breakfast in existence.”
“What exactly is that?”
“It’s this breakfast burrito from a local café. Eggs, black beans, ham, Monterey Jack cheese, guacamole, and salsa on a white-flour tortilla.”
He raises a brow. “Sounds interesting. But you can’t tell me it beats a good old brown-sugar Pop-Tart.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“I am always serious about breakfast.”
“A Pop-Tart.” I give him a long look. No idea if he is winding me up or what. “Please.”
He takes his eyes from the road for a moment to shoot me another one of those glances. Though this time, it seems more curious in nature. “Your choice of cheese also gives me pause. Would you really willingly choose Monterey Jack over mozzarella?”
“What do you have against Monterey Jack?”
“It’s fine, I suppose,” he says with a faint air of disdain. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“By ‘that sort of thing,’ do you mean cheese ? Because I like cheese.”
He lifts the fingers of one hand from the wheel. As if he’s waving the subject adieu.
“There’s nothing wrong with Monterey Jack. It’s a wonderful cheese.”
“Whatever you say, Lilah.”
There’s something in the way the Santa Ana wind tousles his dark hair that works for me. Makes it hard to look away. Though he is alluring with or without the weather.
“You’re staring at me,” he mumbles.
“I want to commit what a Monterey Jack hater looks like to memory. That way, I can avoid your kind in future.”
His smile is a split-second sort of thing. Like it escaped him for a moment. “Bold words from a Pop-Tart-phobe.”
“I never said I hated Pop-Tarts. Just that there is no way they compare to a breakfast burrito.” I wait for a while. “What’s up, Ali? Nothing to say in your defense?”
“I just thought I’d let you sit over there and dwell in your wrongness for a while. You seem like a bright enough lass. I am sure you’ll come to your senses eventually.”
I snort.
We’re heading northwest, and there’s little to see until we join the Pacific Coast Highway at Santa Monica. The gods of traffic smile on us and we make good time. A handsome man in a sedan tries to catch Alistair’s eye at a red light, along with several women in an SUV. Who can blame them?
“What?” asks he of the dark tousled hair and chiseled jawline.
“Hmm?”
“You’re still staring.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. What’s on your mind, Lilah?”
I sigh. “I was just thinking...”
“About?”
“How wonderful this is. The sun is shining, music is playing, and this car is a dream. Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“And now I’m thanking you again. You put yourself out for me. A veritable stranger in a sticky situation,” I say. “You’re a good man, Alistair Lennox. Even with the whole cheese thing.”
He grunts.
“What else would you like to argue about?”
“I suppose we could move on to lunch. I grabbed a burger. What about you?”
“Brunch was late, so I didn’t bother.”
He just nods.
It is a spectacular day for a drive. The endless blue of the ocean disappears in the distance. There are gorgeous beaches with expanses of sand, rugged cliffs, and rock formations. But it’s the cool salty air rushing past that makes it sublime. My scarf is wound around my neck, and the ends flutter in the wind. I want to imprint this moment in my memory so I can play it back at will whenever I need a hit of happy.
I clear my throat and announce, “Back to my wish list. I decided not to attempt riding a mechanical bull.”
“Probably for the best.”
“I also started working on a second wish list, which—”
“Did you finish the first one?” he asks.
“No. Not quite.”
“What does the second one cover?”
“Things I want to revisit, like my favorite books and so on.”
He thinks it over for a moment. “That makes sense. What’s on the list?”
“The paranormal romance I read last night and season one of The Vampire Diaries . Except it’s twenty-two episodes, so I don’t know how feasible a rewatch is given time constraints and the other things I hope to do. But those two choices kind of sum up my teenage years.”
“Maybe you could just watch your favorite couple of episodes.”
“That would work.”
“What else have you been doing?”
“Not much.” I stare out at the ocean and try to convince myself that everything is fine.
“What are you frowning about?” he asks. “What’s wrong now?”
“I looked you up online, and I feel a little weird about it.”
“Did you?” he asks in an unhappy tone of voice. “Weird how?”
“Guilty, I guess.”
His lips thin, and he shoots me a look out of the corner of his eye. “You could have just not told me.”
“I don’t want to lie to you. It doesn’t feel like a good time for me to be adding to my karmic debt. But I did want to know more about you since we’re spending time together, and you’re touchy about being asked anything. Which is, of course, your right.” I swallow. “That excuse sounded more plausible in my head.”
Nothing from him.
“I should point out that I already knew most of it due to living on the same planet as you for the past twenty-nine years. And wanting to know more about the person you’re spending time with isn’t exactly nefarious. Though I can also see how you might feel it’s ever so slightly an invasion of your privacy since you’re sensitive about that sort of thing.”
His jaw is set in stone. It would take a chisel to move the thing. “I just wish you hadn’t done that, Lilah.”
“But don’t you think maybe you’re being a little overly sensitive?”
“Are you deliberately trying to start a fight with me?”
“No. Just thinking things through.”
His frown turns contemplative, but he says no more.
The cell attached to the dashboard vibrates with an incoming call, and Helena flashes on the screen. He dismisses the call, and a moment later, the cell starts vibrating once again. He punches the button with his finger and says, “I’m about to walk into a meeting.”
“No, you’re not,” says a woman with an upper-crust English accent. “You’re driving on the highway a few minutes from home.”
“Mother—”
“Carlos just passed you. He’s heading into Beverly Hills to visit his brother. He texted to tell me you were on your way.”
“He did, did he?” asks Alistair in a defeated tone.
“I’ll see you and your blonde friend shortly. I’m very excited. Such a wonderful surprise, darling!”
His previous unhappiness has been doubled at least. It’s obvious in the stark line of his jaw. “I’m sorry. We’re going to have to go.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. “Does she really think you were on your way to visit, or was she just pretending so she could guilt-trip you?”
“With my mother, you never know.”
He doesn’t offer any further explanation. Just slows the car and turns at the next exit, taking us toward the beach. Lots of big, impressive homes. I doubt I can even afford to breathe the air around here. His mother was right—we were indeed only minutes from her place. Alistair’s grip on the wheel tightens with each mile while I feel smaller and more insignificant. Facing down this sort of wealth is intimidating. Multimillion-dollar properties and cars that cost more than all my worldly possessions. It just reinforces how he and I have nothing in common. Not really. Our budding friendship was probably bound to crash and burn.
We pull up outside a tall iron fence and wait for it to slowly open. A hedge guards the property from prying eyes. Spiky cabbage palmettos and olive trees with branches twisted from the harsh coastal winds line the driveway. We pass two smaller buildings and pull up behind a sprawling midcentury modern house. A five-car garage sits to the side. I think this is what they call a compound.
And the man beside me continues to be one big ball of tension. He takes off his Ray-Bans and says, “I’ll try to keep it brief. Then we can get back to our plans.”
“Sure.”
A pale woman wearing a voluminous pastel dress with her gray-tinged dark hair piled messily on top of her head emerges from the house. She is nothing less than spectacular. “Darling!” she calls.
“Hello, Mother,” Alistair says, climbing out of the car with the air of someone submitting to some sort of horrible fate.
“It’s so good to see you.” She throws her arms around him and squeezes him tight. “My beautiful little baby boy.”
Meanwhile, his expression is pure stoicism. “Brave words from someone who doesn’t even reach my chin.”
“Introduce me to your friend.”
“This is Lilah” is all he says.
I climb out of the car and give her my best non-awkward smile. “Hello, Lady Helena.”
“She’s nervous, darling. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Mmm” is all he says.
“It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”
He scoffs. “A month at most.”
“Try three, my darling child. You’re always so busy.” She beams up at him. “But you’re here now and you’ve brought a friend. You never introduce your friends to me. Not since... Well, we won’t talk about that. But Lilah must be special indeed.”
Alistair frowns. “Mom, we’re not—”
“Welcome to the beach shack.” She sweeps forward and grasps hold of my hand. “Come inside, come inside. It’s too windy for drinks on the patio. But they’ll taste just as good in the parlor.”
Beach shack, my butt. The place is a mansion. All glass walls and beamed ceilings. Despite her colorful clothing, the decor seems sedate. Lots of cream and dark wood. And the moment we walk inside, Lady Helena bellows, “Dougal, they’re here. Where are you? We need drinks.”
“I’m coming,” yells back someone with a heavy Scottish accent. Dougal appears to be around the same age as Lady Helena. In his sixties, if I had to guess. He’s fit and tall with a bald head and bushy gray beard. And after giving Alistair a hug, he heads immediately to the well-stocked bar in the corner of the living room. “What’s your lass’s name?”
“My name is Lilah and we’re just friends,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
The older man laughs. “The lad’s always been a friendly sort. Hasn’t he, Your Ladyship?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “Wait. Is that the right answer? Should I have lied? We don’t want to scare her off.”
“You’ve forgotten your glasses, old man,” says Alistair. “Need me to come back there and pour?”
Lady Helena reclines on a cream armchair. “You better, or half of the good whiskey is going to end up on the floor.”
“I heard that,” says Dougal.
“Of course you did. We never said there was anything wrong with your hearing.” Lady Helena turns to me with a smile. “Dougal is my gardener, butler, chauffeur, and so on. He grew up on the family estate in Scotland and then went on to work there like his father.”
“Did you grow up there too?” I ask.
“No. I was mostly in London or away at school. Mother hated that drafty old castle. But we visited now and then.”
Alistair and Dougal continue to argue good-naturedly behind the bar. It might be the first time I’ve seen him remotely relaxed. Smiling and laughing. Whatever hesitation he shows with his mother, there’s none when it comes to this man.
“Talisker, thirty-year-old single malt, from the Isle of Skye,” announces Dougal, serving first Lady Helena and then me. There are several fingers of amber liquid in the heavy crystal glass. “In honor of our new friend Lilah.”
“Thank you.”
He stands beside my chair, waiting until I taste it. Talk about putting on the pressure. “What do you think?” he asks. “Nice and peaty, isn’t it?”
I swallow it down and smile super convincingly. “It’s very good.”
“Just admit that you don’t like it.” Alistair sits on the sofa opposite me. “Lilah is apparently not a scotch drinker.”
Dougal’s face falls. The man is heartbroken. How could I have done such a thing? He then shrugs and swiftly takes my glass from me. “We won’t waste it, then.”
“Oh, no,” cries Lady Helena. “What do you drink? Darling, what does she drink?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
Alistair taking a seat on the opposite side of the room from me seems like a statement. Though I am a grown-up who doesn’t need her hand held. But there’s a distinct distance between us now.
“How long have you two known each other?” asks Dougal.
“Since Saturday,” says Alistair.
Dougal’s brows rise. “Not long at all.”
“When you know, you know.” Lady Helena sighs wistfully. “I once got engaged to a total stranger while on a bender in Paris for Fashion Week. These things happen. The sheer awkwardness of waking up with the most exquisite hangover and not being able to remember my fiancé’s name.”
Alistair blinks. “So, you didn’t in fact know.”
“She left the ring on the nightstand and got on the first plane back to Heathrow,” says Dougal. “Never saw him again.”
Lady Helena pouts. “My point is that you can fall at first sight. There’s no set allotment of time that must pass before love is allowed. Isn’t that right, Lilah?”
“Time is just a construct,” I say.
“Suck-up,” mumbles Alistair.
“But we’re only friends, as previously mentioned.”
“Oh.” Lady Helena’s smile doesn’t stay down for long. “But you must have a good feeling about where things are heading, though, darling. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought a woman you’ve only known for two days home to meet me.”
Alistair’s brow furrows like never before.
“Just friends,” I repeat with a smile.
She turns to her son and asks, “You spend time with women who are just friends?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Well done, darling. You certainly didn’t get that from his side of the family.”
“I always wanted to drive the coastal ride in a convertible,” I explain. “It’s on my wish list. Your son was kind enough to offer. Of course, it would have been rude not to stop since we happened to be passing.”
He nods. “What she said.”
“How did you meet?” asks Dougal.
“She almost crashed into my car.”
Dougal gasps dramatically. “Not your grandfather’s Aston Martin!”
Alistair confirms this with a nod, and I am most definitely in Dougal’s bad books. The man is outraged.
“But I didn’t in fact hit your car, did I?” I ask. “I swerved and hit a concrete bollard instead.”
“Are you all right, Lilah?” asks Lady Helena.
“The muscles in my neck are a little stiff. But otherwise fine. Thank you.”
“You didn’t tell me your neck was sore,” says Alistair, suddenly looking concerned.
“It’s nothing.” I stand and wander over to the front of the house with its view of the Pacific Ocean. “What a great outlook.”
“We’re right on the beach,” confirms Lady Helena. “If you like sand. Which I don’t.”
“You live at the beach, but you don’t like the beach?”
“I like looking at it from a suitable distance with a drink in my hand. Much more civilized.”
“Are you still seeing that medium, Mother?” asks Alistair.
“Colin? Yes. But he prefers to be called an intuitive.” She pauses to sip her scotch. “He’s been so helpful. We’ve been dealing with a lot of my issues around self-love. He actually had a message for me to pass on to you the last time I visited. He said, ‘Beware the color blue.’ It all sounded rather ominous, actually. Make of that what you will.”
Alistair’s gaze slips from my face to my pale blue tee and back again. Then he says, “Very interesting. Tell Colin I said thank you.”
As juvenile as it is to scratch your cheek with your middle finger, it still happens from time to time. Such is life.
“Betty White is one of his spirit guides,” continues Lady Helena. “Isn’t that brilliant?”
“I would take advice from Betty White,” I say.
Dougal nods. “You’d be a fool not to.”
“Remind me, Mother,” says Alistair. “What happened to that last psychic you were seeing?”
Lady Helena sighs and flops back in her chair. “It’s hardly Gabi’s fault that she’s in jail for grand larceny. Communing with the dead is complicated. Messages are bound to get jumbled every now and then. It’s also not like everyone is ready to hear the truth, let alone have the wisdom to apply it to their life in a beneficial manner. It’s so sad the way people harbor resentment in their hearts.”
“That is sad,” I agree, turning to her son. “It’s not like we don’t all do things now and then that we regret. And to forgive is divine.”
Alistair’s gaze is as cranky as can be. Due to my research or this visit with his mother or a combination of both, I do not know. But it would greatly ease my mind if he could be less hot while behaving ever so slightly like a dick.
Lady Helena points her glass of scotch in my general direction. “Exactly right, Lilah. We can only move forward by releasing the past and embracing the future.”
“What nonsense,” grumbles Alistair. “All your psychics and spirit guides. You know I don’t believe in any of it. What happened to science and reason?”
“Well, my darling boy, I believe we should all be free to live our truth.”
“I’m well aware.”
“That’s enough,” says Dougal sternly.
“Imagine him daring to disparage my spiritual beliefs. And just like that—” Lady Helena snaps her fingers “—he’s out of the will.”
“Again,” says Alistair in a lighter tone.
She laughs. “Again. I don’t know how many times that is now. Just as well—I can’t be bothered to contact my solicitor and make any actual changes.”
“Phew,” says her son with a small smile. His gaze lingers on me as he sips his scotch. Then, out of nowhere, a sly sort of smile appears on his lips. “Actually, Mother,” he says. “You asked what Lilah drinks? I just remembered, she mentioned wanting to try absinthe. It’s another item on her list.”
Lady Helena bursts out of her seat. “What a wonderful idea!”
“No. Absolutely not. I’m putting my foot down,” says Dougal, who does indeed put his foot down. “The last time you opened a bottle of that stuff, you rang you-know-who and told him to kiss your ass.”
“That was years ago, and he deserved it. You know he did.” Lady Helena sweeps over to the bar and reaches for the top shelf. Several sparkling diamond bracelets slide up her arm as she stretches and strains. “I won’t be the one drinking it, anyway. It’s for Lilah. Alistair. Darling. Please help. I’ll need the fountain too if we’re to do this properly. I think it’s on the bottom shelf of the cupboard here.”
Alistair rises to his feet. “Coming, Mother.”
“Well—” Dougal sighs heavily “—I hope you have a stout constitution, lass.”
“Me too,” I say, with no small amount of fear.
“Your mother is a creature of pure chaos.”
“You’re not wrong,” says Alistair. “Are you sure you don’t need ibuprofen or something for your neck?”
“I’m fine.”
Malibu is magic. It reminds me of hanging out at the beach when I was younger. The sun is setting, and the play of colors across the sky is sublime—hues of orange and terra-cotta fade to peach and pink before melting into lavender and mauve. There’s something soothing about watching the water. Having an unimpeded view of this dreamlike vista from Helena’s living room. And yet my sigh is the heaviest known to womankind.
Alistair’s face is blank. The same as it’s been for the last hour. “What was that for?”
“The burden of big thoughts.”
“Such as?”
I do my best to gather said thoughts into a straight line. It doesn’t work. “Please take into consideration that there’s a small chance I am somewhat inebriated.”
“You don’t say,” he replies in a dry tone.
“You also make me nervous, so don’t expect this to be eloquent.”
He frowns. “I make you nervous?”
I just shrug.
“Why would I make you nervous?”
“Hush. I’m talking now,” I say, moving right along. “You see, this whole situation with the predictions has been making me take stock. I always thought I would travel and do all the kinds of things that are on my list. But then routine takes over, and it’s all work and bills. I want to try to live with joy and notice the little things.”
“It’s a nice idea,” he says.
“I am going to try to be more present and live in a more... Shit. What’s the word? What kind of manner?”
“Mindful?”
“Yes! Thank you. Live in a more mindful manner.”
There’s definite amusement in his gaze. “Good work.”
“You’re mocking me because I’m under the influence, but I don’t care.” I am almost finished with my second glass of the green-colored cocktail Helena made me. It tastes of aniseed, apple juice, lime, and mint. And is poured from an ornate antique glass-and-silver fountain, which is basically an orb full of booze on a stand with a little tap on the front. “My lips are numb, and my head is light.”
“I told you to go easy. Absinthe is strong.”
“Doesn’t it frustrate you?”
“Beyond belief,” he says. “What are we talking about, Lilah?”
“We’re so programmed to worry about what other people think all the time. But the fact is, no one’s sitting at home mulling over some stupid shit I said last week. Or last year. Or a decade ago. There’s no need to spend my life second-guessing everything I say or do.”
He cocks his head and just listens.
“We waste so much time that way. Worrying. I wouldn’t have rushed to ask my ex to move in with me if I hadn’t been trying to meet some idiotic... Shit. It’s happening again. What’s the word I’m after?”
“Plan? Schedule? Ideal?”
“Any of those will do,” I say. “Don’t underestimate how embarrassing it was to admit that about my ex either. It’s stupid the way society still pushes people to conform in subtle ways. My life won’t be bereft if I don’t partner up and have children. It’ll just be different, and that’s okay. How ridiculous is it that I still feel the need to tell myself that in this day and age.”
He nods. “Fuck the patriarchy.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Are you happy, Lilah?”
“What?” I frown in confusion. “Right now?”
“No. I mean in general, with your life.”
“Some of the time. Happy is hard,” I say. “What about you?”
“I would say I’m content.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Then I ask, “You’re still cranky at me, aren’t you?”
He looks away and sighs. “No.”
“Really? That’s great. Though it might have been wiser of me to keep my mouth shut and not say anything about looking you up online. I’ll have to think about that when I’m sober. When does honesty kick you in the pants, and is it really worth it?”
“Oh, no!” cries Lady Helena, illustrating my earlier point about her being pure chaos. A moment ago, she was on the other side of the living room dancing to disco music from the seventies. “What happened? You looked him up?”
Alistair rises and walks away.
Lady Helena winces. “The press is a particularly delicate topic. You have to understand, Lilah. He’s had no control over the narrative they spin about him since he was twelve. They’ve invaded his life at every possible opportunity and made money off their lies. It’s not something you can appreciate until you’ve actually experienced it. Not that I would wish it on anyone. I invited them in a long time ago and have to live with that decision. But my son never had a choice.”
I nod.
“He was such a happy child before all of that. Everywhere we went, he made friends. You couldn’t stop to buy gas without him getting into a conversation with someone. People fascinated him. He always wanted to know the story of everyone’s life. Then he became so sad and withdrawn.” She sighs and pats my shoulder. “There, there, dear.”
“Now, then, Your Ladyship,” says Dougal. “Alistair is quite capable of handling his own affairs. Why don’t we talk about something else?”
“What a good idea. Drink this.” Alistair returns and pushes a glass of water at me while removing the remains of the absinthe cocktail. “That’s enough of that.”
I down the water.
With an expression of relief, he announces, “It’s time for us to go.”
The drive back home is a quiet one. Though the rush of the cold night air helps to clear my head. I don’t know if we’re going to continue being friends, but we’re definitely not in love with each other. The truth of the matter is Alistair Lennox is a field full of land mines that I lack the skills to navigate. Time for more toxic positivity. Good Witch Willow couldn’t have been more wrong about us. Therefore, after deducting the half a point I had awarded the prediction, the chance of me dying next week is down to 55 percent.
Not bad.
He pulls up at the curb outside my apartment, and I climb out of the convertible and close the door. It is a truly beautiful car. The sounds of the city fade away, and there is only this horrible silence between us. It’s like the whole world is holding its breath. Or maybe that’s just me.
“Alistair—”
“Drink some more water before you go to bed,” he says in a no-nonsense tone.
“Thank you again for doing this. It was great.”
“You’re welcome.” He nods. “Thank you for going along with visiting my mother. She enjoyed meeting you.”
“Sure.”
I search for something meaningful to say. Something to prolong this moment with him or to check on the heartbeat of our burgeoning friendship. However, not enough sleep last night and a full day with absinthe have caught up with me, and my mind is a mess. What I really want to ask is if I will see him again, but instead, I just stand there and dither. Given everything going on, I should be braver and put my heart on the line. But what if I say the wrong thing? What if he gets all up in his feelings again?
Fuck it. “This was fun today. I was wondering did you want to maybe—”
“I’m busy,” he says, frowning at the steering wheel. Like it personally did him wrong.
“Oh. Okay.”
“You should head on inside. I have to go.” And that’s exactly what he does.