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CHAPTER
6
Oliver chattered like a chipmunk as they approached her office, questioning her about what transpired behind Jonathan’s closed door and tossing out theories about her no-lying predicament. Lucy tried to digest his words, but her mind strayed to Zeke. Not to mention the fact that Jonathan or Joanna could appear at any second and throw her out on her ear. They were less likely to do that while she sat in a meeting with a client, so the protection of her office was paramount.
“...made a wish, then maybe you have to unwish it,” Oliver blabbed.
“What?”
“Are you even listening?”
“Of course! I have to unwish my wish so I can lie again.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I did some research, and the web says the curse reversal didn’t work because a wish and a curse are different things.”
Lucy considered his theory as they turned the final bend toward her office, ignoring how absurd it sounded. “Interesting.”
“I know. The logic doesn’t make total sense, but none of this makes sense anyway, so maybe there’s hope for getting you in shape for lunch with Lily.”
“That’s assuming I don’t get fired before lunch.”
“Fired?” He stopped walking for half a second.
She let out an exasperated breath. “Yes. Long story short, Jonathan propositioned me and I told him off. That’s why I ran to the bathroom. I’ll tell you the whole story later.”
A flurry of swear words slipped from Oliver’s lips and quietly dissolved on the air behind her.
They were ten steps from her office, and she didn’t see one of the Js waiting outside the door or charging at her like a raging bull, so she at least had a job for the next hour while she met with Zeke.
“Do you still have time to go to the bar before lunch?” Oliver asked. “You said you had a weird drink, and the internet says maybe—”
“Oh!” Lucy said, having forgotten about her plan to visit the bartender who had probably spiked her drink with truth serum the night before, which she had to admit, though still absurd, was slightly more plausible than the wish theory. “Yes, I will most definitely be going to the bar before lunch.”
“Okay, I’ll—”
Lucy cut him off with a gasp when they arrived at her office. “Zeke! You’re early.”
They froze in the doorway and gaped at the man standing on the chair opposite her desk. Zeke Davidson posed like an explorer, fists punched into hips, one foot raised on the chair’s arm.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” he said.
Lucy was baffled both by why Zeke was standing on her furniture and why he spoke in a British accent when he had grown up in Long Beach.
Oliver shot Lucy wide eyes. “Have fun with that,” he murmured, and headed for his desk.
Lucy politely smiled and entered her office. “Zeke, I wasn’t expecting you for a few more minutes.”
“All is forgiven, m’lady,” he said, continuing with the British accent as he, thankfully, hopped down from the chair.
Ezekiel Davidson stood over six feet tall and dressed like a brooding thespian: a cardigan, a light scarf that served the sole purpose of draping his neck in stereotype, a shaved head. He was the most hyperbolic client Lucy had; everything was fabulous and stupendous or would absolutely be the death of him. His flair for drama left no moment dull, and with a client list that included demanding divas and playboys who landed themselves in the tabloids, lovably zany Zeke reminded her that working in the land of make-believe could be a delightful privilege.
“What do you think of my British accent?” he asked.
She was glad it was good because she’d have been forced to tell him if it wasn’t. “It’s fantastic.”
“Fabulous,” he trilled in his normal voice. “Your opinion means absolutely everything to me, Lucy. I would be devastated if you didn’t like it.”
“No pressure.” She winked at him. “May I ask what it’s for?”
