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  For a brief moment I clamp my jaw. “Mounted.”

  “Good.” He bites down on one corner of his lip, squeezes my hand, tugs me into his side, and moves with me down to the fifty-inchers.

  Twenty minutes later, after much handholding and pretending for whoever is watching, we leave with a new telly and an Apple TV device loaded in the back of the Escalade.

  Ten minutes after that, he has illegally parked on the side of the street and is out of the vehicle and opening my door to help me out before I can even undo my seat belt.

  Once again, he takes my hand in his and leads me down the sidewalk.

  Are we still pretending? Are we still being watched? Where are we going?

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Lunch,” he answers, dodging a skinny bloke with two puppies on leashes.

  We’re going for lunch.

  Jaxon King, who never eats with anyone, is taking me on a lunch date.

  Is this how he lives? Commits multimillion-dollar crimes in the mornings, then goes about mundane tasks like telly shopping as if nothing’s happened? Ha. He’s probably done this so many times it’s like breathing to him now. Zero effect on his conscience. All he cares about is that the mission was accomplished, and that’s it.

  And we’re still holding hands and pretending to be lovers while I-don’t-know-who watches us. Why are they even watching us? What has he done? And why am I involved? Why does it have to be me, and not Nadine?

  He halts at a corner by a stoplight, turning into a small restaurant with a tree-green facade. As he opens the door, he lets go of my hand and presses his palm to the small of my back, urging me in ahead of him.

  Inside, the restaurant is small and simple, nothing fancy, but clean and inviting, with a handful of eat-in customers.

  At a corner seat for two, he pulls out my chair—who is this man?—before he takes a seat across from me and picks up the menu.

  “This is vegan cuisine,” I point out after scanning the name on the front of the menu.

  “Yep.”

  “I’m not vegan.”

  “You don’t have to be vegan to eat vegan food.”

  “What if I don’t like vegan food?”

  “Have you ever eaten vegan food?”

  “No,” I admit.

  He closes his menu and sets it down. “It’s not grass, Timber, it’s food. Except that it’s been prepared from all natural ingredients, no animals, animal products, or by-products, or anything grossly unhealthy.”

  “I know that but—”

  “Why don’t I order for you, and you can tell me later what you think about vegan food. You’re all for facts, right? Consider this lunch an experiment.”

  Hmm. He sure knows how to get his way, doesn’t he?

  “Fine,” I concede.

  A waitress comes over and he orders for both of us. He asks for wine, but I ask for sparkling water.

  “What’s up with the sparkling water?” he asks once the waitress is gone.

  I adjust my glasses. “Barring the fact that it’s the middle of the day, I don’t drink.”

  He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “May I ask why?”

  “You may.”

  He gives me that half smile again, and I’m a human puddle again. “Why?”

  “As far as your body is concerned, alcohol is poison, or at least something the body doesn’t care to have inside it. Therefore, each time you drink alcohol, the body attacks it by producing an enzyme called alcohol dehydrogenase, which takes shots at the alcohol as it attempts to pass through the stomach lining and again when it reaches your liver. Alcohol not broken down by the liver travels to the rest of the body, including the brain. And that’s the scary part for me. Alcohol can manipulate the parts of the brain that control speech, memory, movement, and rationality. In other words, alcohol muddles. And I’m not a fan of being muddled. Alcohol is an invitation for trouble. I like to be in control of my mind, actions, and anatomy.”

  “Your anatomy, huh?” He studies me from across the table. “You always in control of every part of your anatomy?”

  “Always.”

  “Even your heart?”

  “Always my heart.”

  “Does that mean you’ve never been in love?”

  I hesitate but decide to answer. Truthfully. “Yes.”

  He shifts in his chair, and his foot under the table somehow ends up rubbing against mine. “You have been in love?”

  I fiddle with my glasses again, distracted by his foot rubbing against mine. Jesus. The table is small, and he’s mighty tall, so maybe he’s not doing it on purpose. Maybe his legs are cramping, and he just needs to stretch them.

  “No,” I say. “I meant, yes, I’ve never been in love.”

  The waitress returns with our water and wine. We’re quiet, watching each other across the table as she sets them down and leaves.

  Naturally, he pursues the uncomfortable topic. “You’ve never been in love because no one fits your idea of Prince Charming, or because you’ve never dated?”

  I dip a finger into the glass of sparkling water and suck it off, playing for time. Again, I opt for honesty. God knows why. “For your information, I don’t believe in Prince Charming.”

  His foot moves against mine again, but I focus on the sparkles in the water and avoid his gaze, which I know is trained on me.

  “You don’t?” There is surprise in his voice. “You’re not one of those girls who hoard romance novels with shirtless men on the covers and dream of the perfect man with the perfect abs and the perfect kiss to come and sweep you off your feet one day and give you the perfect life?”

  I look up at him and make a face. “Seriously? I can actually tell the difference between reality and fiction. So, no.”

  “What do you believe in, then, if not Prince Charming?”

  Turning my gaze out the window, I watch the busy traffic and the busier bodies hustling past. People always seem to be in such a rush in this city. “I believe in the facts of life. The world is broken, therefore we are broken. No one was ever meant to be perfect. We are all broken people living in a broken world. People’s quest for so-called happiness will never end. They think if only they can find love, they will be happy. They think if they can just be rich, they will be happy. They think if they can have a secret affair, they will surely be happy. Yet, they never are. They keep searching, believing there is something missing out there. Something that will make them complete. But there isn’t. Nothing will ever make us complete. Not love, not possessions, not pleasure.”

  He leans in with genuine interest…or maybe just to humor me. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head. “We were each born with a hole inside of us, and it doesn’t matter what we try to stuff it with, it won’t ever fit. Because we’re not meant for this world. We’re meant for something else. Something greater than this life. And the sooner we realize that, the sooner we’ll stop searching and start looking.”

  “Looking?” He frowns. “How’s that different?”

  “I don’t mean to look for, but to look at, and within. Look at the world, people, ourselves. See, don’t just be. Don’t search. Accept. Appreciate. Live. Enjoy who you are, where you are, who you can be. It doesn’t matter how high up you get in life, an apple will still look and taste like an apple, and an orange will still look and taste like an orange. We should be appreciating that.”

  He leans back again. His gaze dips to my lips, lingers, and lifts again to my eyes. “You don’t have a height that you aim to reach?”

  I let out a little laugh. “I don’t. I’m just living and enjoying the ride. We’re all headed to the same place. No amount of status, fame, or riches can buy you out of that. Why spend the journey fighting to climb a ladder that leaves you lonelier, more miserable, and more confused the higher you get?”

  He regards me. “You speak with conviction.”

  “I speak with wisdom.”

  He smiles. And it’s be
autiful. It’s the sunlight. It’s the stars. It’s a dream.

  It’s a lie.

  “Is there anything you want from this life?” he asks. “Anything at all?”

  Nothing before I met him.

  But ever since that kiss in Paris, I’ve been wanting, aching, craving more things. More things from him. Just more. Always more.

  But I can’t admit that, so I prevaricate. “One thing.”

  His blue eyes dance with interest. “And what’s that lucky one thing?”

  “A backup life. Hooked up to the tail end of this one, so as this life reaches its last minute, my backup life kicks in like a generator.”

  He looks annoyed.

  But I grin, because a backup life would be awesome.

  Our food arrives. I’m glad. Because it gives him enough time to wipe that look of annoyance off his face. It’s not as if he would share his life philosophy if I asked him to.

  As the waitress departs, I look down at my food. It’s a big bowl. A very big bowl. With some very colorful food in it. I can make out spaghetti, baby tomatoes, greens, and onions, but the other ingredients are a mystery. I’m not sure what to think of it…though it does smell delicious.

  “Spicy roasted ratatouille with spaghetti,” he says from across the table. “Taste it.”

  I glance across at his dish. His order is a small, juicy burger that I’d love to sink my teeth into, and a side bowl of mixed salad. “How come you get a burger and I get ratatouille?”

  His lips twitch. “This is a sweet potato and bean veggie burger, and this is a kale salad. I didn’t think you’d like those. The burger bun is from gluten-free oat flour. What you have is my favorite dish.”

  “Spicy whatever ratatouille?”

  He laughs. And I die. Because he never laughs. He keeps killing me. He keeps bringing me back to life. “Tell you what. Go ahead and taste yours, and if you don’t like it, we can swap.”

  I pick up my fork and stab through the open space between us in a mock threat. But he just sips on his wine, ignoring my weak attempt at intimidation.

  I taste a morsel. And another. Then a forkful. It’s spicy, so I take two sips of water.

  I glance up and see him watching me, his eyes knowing. I want to tell him how great this dish tastes…but I also want to dig into it more, so I do.

  Mmm, delicious vegan food. There are so many different flavors and textures and mixtures of the familiar.

  It’s not until the bowl is half empty that I set my fork down and sit back, replete. The meal is so good I don’t want to see it go to waste, but I’ve no space left to fit it all.

  After depleting my glass of water to cool the spiciness on my tongue, I look across to see his burger is gone and his salad half eaten. I bet he finished that burger in two bites.

  He picks up his wine and lifts the glass to me. “I take it you like spicy whatever ratatouille?”

  “That,” I say, pointing to the bowl, “is pure food-gasm.”

  He stares at me. I stare back.

  I smile. He doesn’t.

  “Anyone ever told you how much you resemble that actress Ashley Benson?”

  I shrug. I don’t care about such things. And I still don’t know who this doppelgänger actress is. “Collin has, and a few others.”

  At this, Jaxon’s jaw pops, his fingers twitch around the stem of his wineglass, and the impregnable wall of impassivity returns. I’m shut out and shut off.

  I won’t be getting anymore smiles or dancing eyes today.

  He signals the waitress. A silent communication that this lunch date is over.

  Annoyed at his childishness, I dare to ask, “What’s your problem with Collin?”

  “Col’s my number one. Best of the lot. He’ll smile at you with your own teeth without you realizing he’s stolen your smile and left you with gums. He’s smart. He’s quick. He gets the job done, and fast, without hiccups. For that, I love him. A problem with him?” He shrugs. “Nope.”

  Such a liar.

  And it doesn’t escape me that Collin said much the same about Jaxon.

  “Let me rephrase. What’s your problem with him being with me?”

  Another jaw pop. “He’s a playboy. Young, fickle, and doesn’t really know what he wants. A girl like you shouldn’t waste your time with him.”

  A girl like me? What’s a girl like me?

  Before I can ask, the waitress is there with the bill. He sticks a credit card into the bill holder without looking at it. He swipes up the two complimentary dinner mints and tosses one to me.

  “It’s nothing serious between us,” I tell him for whatever reason. Okay, probably because I’ve somehow managed to hit a nerve. “I know he’s sleeping with other people.”

  Jaxon pops the mint into his mouth. “And you’re okay with that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Living, remember?” Seriously, I need to stop lying so much. It’s starting to feel too easy, too natural. And that…is dangerous.

  “Control of your anatomy, and all that,” he mumbles, shaking his head at the table.

  Really? Who the hell is he to judge me? “What about you?”

  He looks up. “What about me?”

  “I saw you in the kitchen with Nadine.” I pause for effect. He doesn’t even blink. “Is she your only? Are you exclusive? Do you treat her like a princess, Prince Charming? Or are you just a big, fat hypocrite?”

  Through emotionless, ice-blue eyes, he just looks at me.

  We’re once again interrupted by the waitress returning with the receipt and his credit card. With his gaze never leaving me, he signs the receipt and pockets his card. The waitress leaves, and he answers, “Not a hypocrite. Just selfish.”

  He stands, and I automatically stand, too.

  He goes ahead of me as we leave the restaurant. A huge distance looms between us. Literally and metaphorically.

  He doesn’t hold my hand.

  Big shock.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kavon sets up the telly for me. I can, of course, hook up a telly myself, but I’m in sulking mode, and Kavon is there, and muscled, and free, so I make him do it.

  I’m sulking because…yeah, Jaxon.

  He drove us straight home after we left the restaurant, brought in the devices we purchased, dumped them in the living room, and left without a word. Nothing.

  His mood shifts exhaust me.

  So, it’s apparently okay for him to stick his nose into my personal life, but vice versa is a no-go? How is that fair? Then again, he’s a con man. Being unfair is what he does.

  But still. Sulk mode.

  Jo’s at school, and Collin and Eduardo are at work. That leaves only Kavon, Mel, and me at the house. So, while Kavon sets up the telly in Jaxon’s bedroom, Mel and I take the opportunity to search the rest of the house for the music box.

  We find things. Valuable things. Shameful things. Disgraceful things. Secrets and dreams. But none of all we uncover is the music box. Which means it’s either in Jaxon’s quarters or not in the house. I don’t imagine he’d keep everything in a house shared with four others, especially with the newest additions of Mel and me.

  Our search comes to a stop when Kavon is through with the telly. We act normal, and he hasn’t an ounce of suspicion. He just goes straight to the kitchen and begins preparing dinner.

  Shortly after that, Jo returns in a foul mood, makes some nonverbal eye-to-eye communication with Melanie, and drags her off to their shared room.

  Eduardo comes home next, smelling like copper and steel. He disappears into his room and re-emerges minutes later, fresh, all dressed up, and bathed in expensive cologne. “Date night with the soul mate,” he tells me, even though I don’t ask.

  Then there’s me. Bored numb.

  No use attempting to make conversation with Kavon. When in the kitchen, he’s aware of no one. He just sticks his earphones in and bobs his head until the food is done.

  Tired of sitting around like a potato, sulking over Jaxon, I check his nights
tand drawers for loose change. Seeing as my purse was never returned, I have no cash of my own, so I’m reduced to searching for loose change like a druggie. The nightstand on Jaxon’s side of the bed contains more than what anyone would consider mere loose change.

  I snag five twenties and leave without telling anyone. I jump in a cab and cross the bridge to Melanie’s and my flat in Brooklyn.

  From the outside, it’s nothing but a dilapidated old industrial building with suggestive graffiti, gang signs, piss stains, stripped paint, weathered bricks, blacked-out windows, and a homeless man dwelling under a makeshift canopy five feet from our entry door.

  At the sound of the cab door slamming shut, his head jerks up. He’s wearing about five layers of clothing. His eyes squint, which highlights the slight crinkles around them. When he recognizes who it is, his face brightens, his stained teeth grinning at me. “English girl.” His voice is low and scratchy. “You’re back.”

  I walk over to him. “Have you eaten?”

  Mel and I usually share our meals with him whenever we’re here. We have a dish, fork, spoon, and cup set aside solely for him. He usually gets breakfast, lunch, and dinner from us. That said, we travel quite often—as you know—which means we’re not always here to feed him. So, we subscribed to a food delivery service to have hot meals delivered to him whenever we know we’d be traveling.

  However, the last time we traveled, it was to Paris, and we were scheduled to be back before the week was over. I never made it back. And I doubted in the heat of everything, Melanie remembered to arrange food for him.

  This conjecture is confirmed with his reply. “No. Not in weeks. I looked for you. The other one came by. The Indian. I asked her for food, and she said all right. I waited, but she never came. I thought you left me. Just like my wife left me. And my kids.” His voice breaks. “Thank you for coming back.”

  “I won’t leave you, Monty,” I say, making a promise I can’t possibly keep. “I just got…unexpectedly busy.”

  Many evenings, when the sun has hunkered down behind the skyscrapers, I take a chair out here to sit and chat with him. Melanie frowns upon this. Through some of these conversations, I learned that he was a trader on Wall Street who had wealth and a good life. A beautiful wife and two daughters. After a horrific crash in the stock market ruined him financially, his wife left him and took their two daughters. Not sure I believe that last part, though. If his wife did leave him, it was probably because he lost everything due to his drug problem, not the stock market crash.