Page 90 of One Billion Reasons

I squeal, and she grins, bright and happy. I follow her into the apartment, and my jaw drops. A view of Manhattan smacks you in the face when you enter. A lot of these old buildings have small windows, but not this one. They cover an entire wall of the plush living room. Big couches frame a massive TV, and a sparkling chandelier takes up the high ceiling. The decor is impersonal but luxurious. “I feel like we’re living in a magazine,” I whisper to Mallory.

“I know, it’s weird, right?” She stands beside me and admires the view of Manhattan glittering below us. “I mean, I picked stuff out for my room, but everything else George selected. Except your room.” She frowns. “I haven’t seen that yet. I think the door is locked.”

I hold up my wrist. There’s a keyfob on a plastic bracelet that the doorman gave to me.

“I’m curious to see it.”

“Sure.” I shrug, affecting nonchalance, but this is weird. Miles lives right above me. He might be there right now. The wedding is over. He’s probably back home, probably already working. Trying to find a way to win the property. A small part of me wants to help him win. Because he deserves it and Mark, that arrogant ass, does not.

Mallory leads me down the wide hallway to a door at the end. “This one. It’s the only room I can’t get into. And George stopped by earlier with an envelope. I’m dying to know what it says.”

I press the fob to the door, and it unlocks with a soft snick. I flick on the light, and my jaw drops.

“It’s nice.” Mallory looks around curiously. “He has better taste than I expected. Or maybe this is all George.”

“No, this is all Miles,” I whisper. I step forward and run my hands over the comforter and the throw blanket. The four-poster bed is grey wood with no curtains. The rug under my feet is hand-knotted in soothing beige and brown. There’s no TV, just a massive bookshelf, filled with dog-eared copies of books I used to love. Regency romances, thrillers, cozy mysteries, even a few books with scenes dirty enough to make my face flame.

“How do you know?”

I step forward to pick up a framed photo, and my hands shake. It’s a photo of Liam and Miles surfing. It sits next to one of Miles and me sitting on the beach, framed by a perfect wave in the background. We’re sandy and happy. I pass it wordlessly to Mallory, and her eyes widen.

“This room is a perfect replica of the room I used to stay in at the Montauk house. Except for the photos.”

“Holy shit,” Mallory whispers. “And the books?”

I blindly pull one off the shelf. It looks like my exact copy, but that would be insane. That would mean he saved these books even after he boarded the house up. Saved them for what? In case I ever went back there? A choked gasp tears from my throat when I see the underlining, the dog-eared pages. I used to doodle in my books back then, putting little hearts around the most romantic scenes.

“These are my books. Well, the house’s books,” I amend. “A collection I added to over the years.”

“Lane. This is fucking nuts.” Mal’s dark eyes are huge. “Is he stalking you?”

“What?” I choke out. “No. Nothing like that. He’s being…Miles.” I sit heavily on the bed and pull an envelope out from under the pillow. There’s a single sheet of paper with a typed note.

Lane,

I hope this brings you comfort when everything else is going to hell. And even if we can’t share a wall, I hope you’ll think of me when you reread some of these old favorites. No, not the murder mysteries, you demon. You know which ones I mean.

Miles

I pass it wordlessly to Mallory.

She reads it and looks back at me. “What the fuck? You have some explaining to do. And I need a drink.”

* * *

Some kind person, probably George, has stocked the fridge and the wine fridge that Mal swears is identical to the one in Miles’s kitchen upstairs. We take great pleasure in pressing all the buttons to display gleaming rows of what look like expensive bottles. We pick a bottle from 1992, Mallory’s birth year, since her birthday is coming up, and settle ourselves on one of the deep couches, feet to feet, like we’re back in our tiny two-bedroom instead of this palace.

“Spill.” Mallory gives me a direct look and takes a hearty sip of wine.

“You might want to put your wine down for this. He says he’s obsessed with me.” My words drop between us, but Mal doesn’t look shocked.

She grins. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.” She does a little shoulder shimmy of happiness, and my chest pinches. “Wait. You don’t look happy. Why don’t you look happy?”

“You didn’t let me finish,” I say grimly. “He wasn’t happy about it. This wasn’t a confession of love. He told me he’s obsessed with me against his better judgment. He won’t admit to love. I told him I loved him and he apologized.” I suck in a breath at the memory. “I asked him if he would eliminate his feelings for me, if he could.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

“He better have had a good answer to that,” Mal says darkly.

“He said yes,” I whisper.

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