Page 9 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

“Well?” he asks finally.

“You’re too handsome. I don’t trust you.”

He’s not as successful at smothering his smile this time. “This from the woman who bedazzled poor Paul from security and left him to deal with her mess.”

“You mean like with rhinestones?”

“No. I do not.”

“I did kind of lose it back there,” I say. “I’ll have to buy Paul something nice to say thank you. But I object to you saying I bedazzled him.”

He just raises a brow. Jerk.

“Be real. I’m a solid six. And there is nothing wrong with being a six. Now and then, when I’m in the right mood, I happen to have a great personality,” I say. “But unlike you with your pretty privilege, I don’t go around just... Why are you looking at me like that?”

“How should I look when you’re talking rubbish?”

“It’s notrubbish, it’strash. We’re in America. We have trash. Get it right.”

“Whatever,” he says, quoting me back to me. “Just tell me the story. Why are you drinking that? You obviously don’t like it. What else haven’t you tried?”

“I don’t know. I’m too busy spiraling to know things.”

He gives me a long look. Then he picks up the drink menu. “Do you like champagne?”

“Not really.”

“That just means you haven’t sampled the good stuff.” He gestures for the bartender and says, “A glass of... Actually, make it a bottle of Dom Pérignon for the lady, please.”

I push my Bloody Mary aside and rest an elbow on the bar. “You’re buying me a bottle of champagne?”

“I am,” he confirms, as if surprised himself.

“Why?”

“In all honesty, you look like you need it. Badly.”

I snort. “Thanks.”

“And I really want that story.”

“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

In lieu of a response, he removes his leather jacket and lays it on the bar. Of course, his biceps are sublime, with just the right amount of bulge. The man needs to get away from me. I only just had my heart trampled last night. Though it’s hard to worry about Josh and his wandering ways in the face of everything else going on.

My unwanted companion watches me as the bartender sets down two glasses and the bottle in a bucket of ice. Once she pours the champagne, he gives her a curt nod. As if he has been waited on hand and foot for the better part of his life and is comfortable with it. As if it is his due. Which makes sense since he’s sort of royalty.

I pick up the glass and take a cautious sip. There’s the usual faint taste of fruit and bubbles, but better. It is delicious, and the happy humming noise I make gives it away. Dammit.

“Look at you, all angry that I was right,” he says with glee.Asshole.“Now tell me the story.”

“Fine. But you’re not going to believe me.” I hold up my hand, showing him the cuts on my palm, half healed and covered in scabs. So gross. “My hip is also one big bruise, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t show you that.”

“What happened?”

“Last night I saved a woman from getting hit by a car. We started crossing the street, and I saw it coming. There was no evidence it was slowing for the red light. So I just sort of grabbed her and pulled us back toward the sidewalk. Still can’t believe it worked.”

“You were lucky.”

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