By Monday she would be Monica and Evelyn’s problem.
?? ?? ??
“Pull in at the next decent bar,” I muttered, my voice low but firm.
Garrett didn’t glance back. “Understood.”
He adjusted the route, merging lanes with smooth precision. I appreciated that about him. He didn’t question much. Knew when I wanted silence and when I needed a wall to throw words at.
I leaned my elbow on the window ledge, eyes narrowed at the blur of lights beyond the glass. It was Friday night, and the streets were clogged with hopefuls—people desperate to forget the week, to drink, to fuck, to feel something.
I wanted nothing. Or maybe I wanted everything, all in one particular package.
Garrett pulled up outside a busy spot in Holborn—glass, concrete, corporate men still wearing their ties loose around their necks, women in tight skirts and tall heels. The din was already spilling onto the pavement.
He stepped out first, scanning the entrance like he always did, then waited for me. Inside, we moved through the crowd with ease—people parted like water when they saw Garrett’s size.
We found a high table tucked off to the side. He ordered a water. I ordered something more substantial.
“Not drinking?” I asked, voice tight.
“Can’t exactly have you slipping on someone’s spilt G&T while I’m tipsy, sir,” Garrett replied dryly. “That’s not in the job description.”
I didn’t respond. My attention was already scanning the room.
Blonde. Smiling. Too wide-eyed. Artificial.
Auburn. Curvy. Laugh too shrill.
Dark-skinned. Elegant. But she was taken.
Brunette. Slim. Too slim.
Every woman had something—legs, lips, a way of looking over their glass like they’d already decided how they’d ruin your night. But none of them had her.
None had the rich golden light in their hair that caught the sun just so. None had the gentle swell of breasts that would fit perfectly into my palms. And none of them—not one—walked with that quiet, unaware allure that made men like me lose sleep.
I reached into my pocket.
The gold tube was still there.
I didn’t open it, just let it roll between my fingers, the weight strangely comforting. As if owning this stupid thing gave me some kind of control.
Garrett looked down, clocked it immediately.
“You know,” he said, sipping his water, “if you're going for a new look, I can take you to a different type of bar.”
I shot him a look sharp enough to wound. “Don’t start.”
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
I let the lipstick sit in the centre of my palm.
Lucia Hart was transferred. Gone.
And still—
She was in the room. All over it. Like her scent.
