Page 61 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Brody smiles, finally, one of his broad, all-encompassing grins. “I aim to please.”

Khloe walks past him to the elevator, taking it for granted Brody will follow, while Lucas and I walk toward the other set of lifts.

I look down at my room information before glancing at Lucas’s.

“Serendipity,” Lucas says, catching my glance. Because unless the number system is logarithmic, Lucas and I are either next-door or across-the-hall neighbors.

“Happenstance,” I agree, wondering how much of this trip Lucas has paid for, reminding myself that I really might need to kill Brody.

Since the porters are taking our luggage directly to our rooms, it’s just me and Lucas in the elevator, the classic music straining through the speakers. I finger the little X-wing in the pocket of my pajamas, hoping Lucas doesn’t notice.

“Extreme snorkeling feels so Brody it’s almost cliché, don’t you think?”

But Lucas isn’t here for my attempts to distract him. “It doesn’t make sense, where you live.”

“It’s close to campus.”

“Even if you’re no longer engaged to—” Lucas stops himself, and some of the old, less assured Lucas resurfaces as he pulls at the back of his neck. “You’re still next in line for your father’s company.”

“Yes.” I even have the business classes to prove it, a stipulation my father added last minute.

“Your closet was nearly bare. None of the dresses or jewelry you wore while with Tatum.”

I don’t ask the obvious: You snooped in my closet?

Nor do I explain: The clothes were provided by stylists, who coordinated directly with publicists, to ensure Tatum and I would photograph well.

“What the hell have you been doing these past six years?”

The doors open. I have no choice but to walk with him down the too-long hallway. “If I tell you my father’s company isn’t doing as well as it used to, would that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Not even remotely.” He stops in front of my room, which is right next to his, and waits for me to open it before following me in, uninvited.

The suite is gorgeous and expansive. I have my own sitting area, a large couch with a couple of extra chairs and several unique (as in numbered as opposed to mass-produced) pieces of art. There’s also a balcony overlooking the Pacific. The glass doors have already been opened to let in the slight breeze.

“Tell me you didn’t pay for this.”

But Lucas doesn’t bother denying my not-a-question. His hazel eyes are focused in that way he gets when trying to hunt out a bug or work through a tricky solution. “You aren’t grieving the end of your engagement.”

It’s not a question, and I see no need to lie about this part. “You knew it was arranged.”

“You looked . . . close in the pictures. I couldn’t tell if you were acting.”

“No need to act. Tatum and I were friends. We’re still friends.”

Lucas’s jaw clenches, but there’s no other sign he’s heard me. In that clever head of his, I’m sure he’s busy connecting the dots: That I needed to block him, because it had just been too much, but that after a five-year engagement to Tatum, we’re still able to remain friends.

“You can’t take over from your father until you graduate. And yet you’re in no rush to graduate.”

“Perhaps I’m struggling to write my dissertation.”

A glimmer of amusement as he shakes his head. “Doubtful.” As usual, Lucas’s trust in me is absolute. The seconds tick by until he asks, his voice low, “Think you’ll tell me what really happened one day?”

He’s standing so close to me that it would take two steps, maybe three, to find myself back in his embrace. It would be so easy to confess. I’d meant well. I hadn’t seen another way out. Brody’s Ivy League–educated mother, Brody, and I combined could not think of a better solution for the specific predicament I’d found myself in.

But what would that fix, ultimately?

The past is unchangeable, unfixable.