“Do they, though? Or do they have the same sense of time and just more of everything else?”
Sage doesn’t answer. We sit in silence for a moment, the wine warm in my chest, the questions still circling.
“What did he say about Preston?” she asks finally.
“That he was a fool. That leaving me wasn’t an upgrade.” I pause. “He sounded angry when he said it. Actually angry. Like Preston had personally offended him.”
“I got to say I like this guy—even if he’s just a good actor.”
“Maybe he was faking it.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what I think.” I lean my head back against the couch. “All I know is that I hired him to pretend to be my boyfriend. That this is supposed to be fake. I realize that once it’s over, he’ll disappear and I’ll go back to my regular life and this will be a weird story I tell at parties.”
“But?”
“But when he looked at me tonight—when he said I was interesting and that Preston was a fool—part of me wanted it to be real.”
Sage reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“That’s not pathetic, Poppy. That’s human.”
“He’d probably have something to say about that. Some sort of observation about how humans need validation.”
She laughs. “Probably.” She glances at her phone. “It’s midnight. I have a nine AM meeting that I’m going to hate.”
“Go. I’m sorry I dragged you out.”
“Don’t be.” She stands, stretches. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened in months. I’m living vicariously through your disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster. It’s a business arrangement.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” She heads for the door, then stops. “Hey. When you figure out what’s off about him—and you will, because you’re you—promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Careful how?”
“I don’t know. Just... careful.” She opens the door. “Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.”
“Since when are you philosophical?”
“Since I started watching murder documentaries at eleven PM.” She blows me a kiss. “Text me updates. Constant updates. This is so much better than watching Netflix.”
The door closes behind her.
I sit on my couch, wine glass in hand, staring at the window where the city lights bleed through the curtains.
Julian Blackthorne. Thirty-two years old—allegedly. Six foot two. Speaks four languages. Doesn’t golf, doesn’t yacht, has wine opinions that might not be boring. Collects art. SawCasablancawhen it first came out.
Something’s off.
I’m going to figure out what.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
JULIAN: Thank you for this evening. I enjoyed it more than I expected.
I stare at the message. Read it twice.
