Page 65 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

Alistair:Was about to call. Where are you?

Me:Heading home.

Alistair:Today has gotten hectic. Can you pick something up for me and bring it over tonight?

Me:Sure. Where from?

Alistair:Not far. I’ll send you the address.

Me:OK

Alistair:It needs to be right now.

Me:Yes, sir.

Alistair:I like the sound of that.

Me:It was meant to be read in a sarcastic tone of voice. You’re doing it wrong.

Rodeo Drive is packed with tourists and pretty people. The luxury department store he sends me to is shiny beyond belief. I tend not to step foot in such places for various reasons. The top one being funds. However, it makes sense Alistair would shop here. The personal stylist area is on the top floor behind an expanse of frosted glass, and the woman at the reception desk is not impressed with me. I can tell from the slow once-over she gives me from head to toe. From my worn sneakers to my baggy light blue jeans with a rip in one knee and the oversize faded hoodie. I’m wearing it with the hood up because I am almost certain there’s still some grass in my hair.

“My name is Lilah Goodluck. I’m here to pick up something for Alistair Lennox,” I say without a smile. Being polite has its limits, and sometimes you have to give to get.

Her demeanor instantly changes. A brilliant smile is plastered on her face as she leads me toward a room at the back. “Of course. We’ve been expecting you. This way, please. Can I get you a coffee or water or perhaps a glass of wine or bubbly?”

“No. Thanks.”

She holds the door open for me. Inside is an even more extravagant room. It is white with gold touches from the potted orchids to the giant gilt-framed mirrors and small crystal chandelier. A changing area waits behind some curtains, and several racks of clothing hang nearby. And lounging on a velvet chaise longue with a laptop is the man himself. The one who did the kissing. At the sight of me, Alistair rises and crosses the room. I could watch him do this forever, just striding toward me in his dapper black suit. He shouldn’t still have this strong an effect on me. But he does.

“There you are,” he says with a brief smile.

“Ali, what’s going on? I thought we were meeting tonight.”

“Why do you have grass in your hair?” he asks, picking out one piece and then another. We have reached the preening each other stage, apparently. It’s a pity I don’t hate it. Not even a little.

“I was lying on the ground beside my grandmother’s grave practicing being dead and chatting with my mom.”

He nods like this makes total sense. Then he pushes back my hood. “This is hideous, Lilah. Take it off. Why are you hiding beneath this thing?”

“It’s my emotional-support hoodie. Leave it alone.” I slap at his hands. “Did they teach you how to be bossy in that castle in Scotland you grew up in?”

“No. I learned that at boarding school. They were do-or-die climates, packed to the rafters with obnoxious rich little shits. But if you projected strength, they usually left you alone.”

All I can do is stare. The man just gave me actual private information about his life. Without me pushing and prodding. He just answered a question in a reasonable manner like a normal person. Amazing.

His gaze is amused. “Better shut your mouth before you catch another insect.”

My lips slam shut. Then open again. “Why do I keep seeing you in suits? I thought tech bros wore sneakers?”

“It depends on who I’m meeting with. Some people expect the suit, given who I am and all. It helps to facilitate certain situations.”

“Huh.”

“Lilah, I’d like you to meet Carolina,” he says, stepping aside.

“Hello, Lilah,” says a woman in a white pantsuit. No wonder I didn’t notice her. She blends perfectly with the decor. That and I am a little overwhelmed. And this perfectly coiffed woman with a golden tan saw us bickering over my old sweats with plant life in my hair. Wonderful.

“Hello,” I say with an awkward-as-fuck smile.

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