Page 93 of Deliverance

“I love L.A. but in small quantities.”

“City life isn’t for everyone.” I stop in front of the restaurant's entrance and turn to face him. “It’ll swallow you, eat you up, and then spit out the bones.”

With that, I pull the glass door open and walk inside, where, despite the late hour, a group of people are crowding the register area. The smell of roasted meat, garlic, and cumin fills my nose, and I finally realize how hungry I really am. I haven’t had anything except several glasses of champagne since breakfast and the lack of food has caught up with me. I’m lightheaded and dizzy, and my body feels like it’s about ready to collapse.

Twenty minutes later, after we get our order, which I asked to be packed to go, I proceed out onto the sidewalk and then enter the next building’s lobby. Zander is a step behind, carrying the bag and looking frazzled.

“Where are we going?” he asks in a hushed voice once we near the reception desk on our way to the elevators.

“Just follow my lead,” I say through clenched teeth and will myself to smile at the security guard. Tonight, luck is on my side because it’s Gary’s shift and he’s a sweetheart and doesn’t ask too many questions.

Recognition settles on his features when he sees me. “Good evening, Ms. Kadence.” His curious gaze darts to Zander, and I pray he’s not into rock music. Although the Boyz II Men tune pouring from the computer speakers tells me it’s not likely. Yet who knows…

“Hey, Gary.” I pretend to plow through my purse in search of a key card, which, of course, I don’t have.

“Nineteen?” The guard checks, returning his attention to me.

“Please.” I smile even wider, so wide my cheeks hurt.

Moments later, the elevator dings and the doors slide open.

“Thank you,” I shout from inside the car, my pulse thrumming wildly in my veins. I hate lying, unless I have a valid reason, and trying to sneak into a building where I don’t live doesn’t make for a good one, but I can’t think of any other place I’d want to be right now. Everything around me, even my own loft, seems to be tainted by Rhys’s presence.

He’s supposed to be two thousand miles away and out of my life for good, save for a signature on a piece of paper.

“You’re welcome, Ms. Kadence.” Gary’s voice is obscured by the whooshing of the elevator doors as they slam together.

My heart’s still racing when we finally begin to move.

“You deserve an Oscar for that scene alone.” Zander laughs, protectively cradling our food to his chest.

“I know someone who lives here.” I lean against the cold wall of the car. “I used to come here a lot.”

“I assume that someone isn’t a boyfriend since you don’t date?”

“No.” I shake my head. “A client.”

Zander doesn’t follow up with another question and we ride the rest of the way in silence, simply staring at each other, and I’m not certain whether I’m disappointed or happy that today is over andScarsis now out in the world for people to see. To judge. To pity. To fear. To wonder.

The emotion that stirs in the pit of my stomach is new. I've never felt it before. It’s powerful and it’s threatening to break free, and because I’m not sure what physical form it’ll take, I shove it down.

We exit on the nineteenth floor and climb another six flights of stairs. By the time we get to the rooftop, I’m winded while Zander hasn’t even broken a sweat.

Of course, he wouldn’t. He’s probably always in tip-top shape if his body that’s corded with lean, hard muscle is any indication.

“You really thought this through.” He stops for a second to marvel at the view stretched out in front of us when we approach the empty lounge area. In the daytime, this place is normally packed with tenants and their guests, who come out here to luxuriate in the California sun, cook barbeque, and drink cocktails, but right now, it’s quiet and devoid of life and it’s exactly what I need after everything that happened today.

Peace.

And privacy.

Because we still have to talk.

My gaze traces the shadowy outline of Zander’s frame drawn against the flickering backdrop of the night sky as I settle on one of the couches. He turns around and strolls over to sit next to me.

Wordlessly, we unpack our food.

“I hope you like it.” Disregarding all rules of dinner etiquette, I loudly sniff my plate and send a sizable piece of meat into my mouth, then speak around the food, “The owner is actually from Iran. This is as authentic as you can get in L.A.”

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