Blake needs a date to his enemy's destination wedding. And not just anyone-a professional. The billionaire genius behind 215 Tech doesn't have time to nurture a real relationship. He hires Lucy to be his fake girlfriend, but things become real when...
After washing the blood off in the shower, I listened to Otto's advice and made myself a drink from the fully stocked bar in my living room. I rarely use it unless entertaining, and I've never consumed alcohol alone. Today is an exception. There's an unopened bottle of Yamazaki whiskey, a gift from the Director of Studio Ghibli. I pour three fingers into a glass tumbler.
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Then another.
And another.
After the third, I stop using a vehicle for the amber liquid and consume it straight from the source. I wander my house aimlessly, the neck of the bottle wrapped lightly in my fist. I now understand how my brother became addicted to substances. Of course, Aidan was a partier. I'm a wallower. After mean, it's the second worst type of drunk to be.
My skin feels hot and numb. My muscles are so relaxed, I'm having trouble controlling them. I keep stumbling into things—cabinets, vases, tables—then chuckling when they fall over. My emotions are a heavy blanket, suffocating but also keeping me cozy. They're somehow sharp and dull at once. A pang of heartbreak will burst through the fog of liquor, then recede like the ocean's tide.
Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.
She's everywhere and nowhere. We're cuddling on the couch, watching The Witch. She's rifling through my library, saying I need more romance books for when Jade visits. She's on my bed, crawling across my body to tie a blindfold over my eyes. She's in my kitchen, making wedding soup and hand-rolled breadsticks while I distract her with kisses.
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I lost her once, and I thought that was hell, but it's so much worse this time. I can't come back from trying to kill her father. I can't grovel my way into her heart when I'm the one who hurt her in a blind rage.
I don't deserve redemption.
But I can continue punishing myself.
Shuffling into my computer den, I take a seat at my desk and stare at the six monitors curved in front of my face. I hit a few keys, utilizing my code to gain access to South Philly's CCTV surveillance system. I locate the Jackson Street feed, using five monitors to keep an eye on the entire block. On the sixth and centermost screen, I stream grainy footage from a camera on the telephone pole outside Lucy's apartment, which has a direct view of the entrance to her building. It's an invasion of privacy, but my morals are more skewed than ever. I just want to see her.
