I met his gaze. My stomach dropped.
He was looking at me from beneath his lashes. One heartbeat passed. Then another.
“You…” I began, fumbling for words. “I thought you didn’t…I mean, what do you mean by…” Wow. Pulitzer-worthy stuff right there. Clearly, I was killing it.
His head tilted slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows. Almost like… surprise.
“I didn’t think you remembered me,” I finally managed. A full sentence. Someone alert the press.
John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Of course I remember you, Nora,” he said. A soft laugh curled around the edges of my name. The way he said it echoed in my head like a song I hadn’t heard in years.
His lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then he seemed to think better of it. Instead, he placed both books back into my hands, turned, and disappeared into his room.
The door creaked shut.
And I stood there, clutching the books like an idiot in the dark.
Chapter Eight
It’s not a lie if you look the part.
Licorice tea is the bane of my existence.
I’m the worst daughter in the world.
Of course I remember you, Nora.
The sentence bounced around my skull for the rest of the too-short night.
I glanced at the wall beside my bed. Just a few inches separated our rooms.
He hadn’t forgotten me. So what? Should he get a gold star for basic human decency?
Of course I remember you, Nora.
I turned onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow like I could suffocate that memory out of me. But the way he had said it… like it was obvious. Like I should have known.
Don’t be silly, little Nora.Of course I, a New York Times bestselling author,remembered you.Be grateful.
I couldn’t help but feel the smallest thrill that he did. And… then I was immediately disgusted with myself.
He was no more special than anyone else here. Just because he popped out a few books a year, had millions of fans, and—I guess—some people thought he was easy on the eyes.
Who cares? Not me.
So why the pretending in the first place? For whose benefit—mine or his?
Because the thing is, he must also remember screwing me over.
So what was this? Regret? Shame?
Because he thought he’d never see me again and now he was like,Oh shit, she got here even without my help?
He was a pompous ass no matter what. Fame really did a number on people. Some people, anyway.
In my heart, I knew Lew Elliot was nothing like John.
