“You’re beautiful. But I’m jealous of your vacation,” I admitted. I grabbed a piece of bread, tore off a small chunk, and popped it into my mouth. “Take me with you. Please.”

“I will. Or are you going back home to—”

For the first time since my charade started, the first city that wiggled into my mind was Las Vegas—the city I had built my life in for the last several years. So where the hell was Lizzie from?

I’d been so immersed in being myself all week—being the name written over and over again on my father’s will—I felt like I was slowly losing my mind.

“Oregon,” I finally informed Stella, although I prayed that by Christmas next month my façade would be over. “Yes, I’ll be going home to see my mother and father.”

Stella ate another piece of bread, giving me a dark look when I grinned and lifted my brow. “Cheat. Day,” she said slowly.

After our waitress stopped by, and I ordered a drink and both my lunch and Carl’s food, Stella’s phone vibrated on the table. Nibbling on yet another piece of garlic bread, she turned it to face her and rolled her dark eyes dramatically.

“I’ve got to figure out how to stop these damn things,” she complained.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing one of those sexting subscriptions,” I joked, quickly realizing how close that hit to home. The reason I became a phone sex operator was because I’d looked into texting jobs first. When I found a forum dedicated to both, I’d decided to go the phone route.

And phone sex, of course, led to escort work and the creation of my girl-next-door alter ego—Alice.

Chuckling, she shook her head. “No, I opted in for these text alerts for Lavish.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Don’t tell me you saw that club picture of me.”

Opening the new alert, she nodded. “Don’t worry, I scrolled right past it. Anyone seen with Oliver Manning is bound to—” She paused mid-sentence, her face knitting into a frown as she looked down at her screen. Glancing up at me, she hunched her shoulders. “Well, you get seen with him once, and you’re all over the damn place.”

I knew when someone was purposely hiding something from me, and my stomach twisted. I crossed, and then uncrossed, my legs under the booth. “Stella ... is he all over the place on your phone right now?”

“I’m sure it’s not a big deal, but—”

“May I see?”

Curling her glossy lips in disapproval, she sighed and rotated her phone so that the screen faced me. Something painful coiled in my chest when I leaned over to see a picture of Oliver and Finley.

Together.

I recognized the backdrop as a popular, and exclusive, sushi destination in Beverly Hills, but I was more interested by the couple themselves as they stood near the curb, their bodies so close I fisted my hands until my nails cut into my palms.

I couldn’t see the look on his face, but the ecstatic grin on hers was undeniable.

“Oliver Manning and socialite girlfriend Finley Scott in Beverly Hills yesterday,” I read the caption aloud, keeping my voice stable in spite of the ragged emotions storming through me. “Looks like they’re back together.”

When she answered, I didn’t miss the sympathy in her tone. “If they are, it won’t last long.”

“Why is that?”

She waited until after our waitress had brought my lemon water to say, “I can trust you, yes?” When I nodded, she continued, “From what Dora told me over drinks one night, Finley’s got a history of just picking up and disappearing on Oliver. Even in their teens.”

I remembered what his ex-girlfriend had said to me the morning in my father’s house about loving Oliver since she was fifteen, and I clenched my teeth, hoping it looked like a smile to Stella.

Fucking Oliver.

She gave the photo on her phone one final glance before taking a sip of her soda. “There’s—there’s nothing going on with you and him, is there?”

I shook my head almost too rapidly. “Absolutely nothing.”

Stella was smart enough to see through the bullshit, but she responded with a slight tilt of her head.

I’m fine, I convinced myself. I’m fine, and he told me all along we’d only have one night together. So why am I irritated?

There was nothing between Oliver Manning and myself, and my focus needed to laser in on figuring out his mother’s motives for ripping my life apart—not ripping his impeccable clothing off his body.

But by the time I returned to the office and dropped Carl’s food by his desk, I was furious. I spent the rest of the day barricaded in my tiny, black-and-white office, transcribing like a mad woman. A few minutes before it was time to leave, I received a new text message, and when I checked it, my heart stopped as I looked down at Oliver’s name at the top of my screen.

Can I see you tonight?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped. Rolling my chair away from my desk, I glowered at the five words on the iPhone screen, the intense pain in my chest spiking a notch with every second that passed. Starting a text, my fingers flew over the tiny letters.

Why would I want to fuck you again when there’s a picture of you with your ex plastered up online? Thanks, but no thanks.

Hovering my finger over the send key, I reconsidered what I wrote. Then, releasing a sigh that made everything from my stomach to my throat sting, I erased every word, but two.

Fuck you.

Chapter 17

Driving my Mini Cooper into the parking garage of my Marina del Rey apartment, I was thinking more rationally. With over an hour and a half away from Emerson & Taylor to clear my mind, I’d taken a step back to revaluate the situation. My response to Oliver and Finley—whatever might be going on between them—was uncharacteristic and admittedly ridiculous.

In my twenty-four years on earth, I had never reacted jealously over a man. For starters, I’d always been so busy with work that dealing with men in my personal life was a headache—like the guy who’d broken up with me after finding out I was an escort or the man I’d dated briefly before him. That hadn’t worked out because of distance.

Meeting Oliver Manning, though, had twisted everything I thought I knew about myself.

In a matter of weeks, he’d worked his way under my skin and tonight—tonight I planned on shoving all that out of my system for a while.

Toting the bottle of wine I’d picked up on the way home and my Prada bag, I took the stairs up to my floor, grateful for the exercise after spending most of the day trapped behind my desk. Although I wasn’t a wino, my best friend adored the stuff, and I was determined to order some takeout and coax her into catching up on one of the many TV shows waiting on the DVR.

But the second I opened the stairwell door and turned onto my hall I knew that Pen was definitely not at home. Otherwise, why would a six-foot-two, gorgeously tan man be leaning against my front door?

His golden-brown hair was damp, giving me the impression he’d showered and immediately come to my place, this was the second time I’d seen him without his customary suit. He wore a casual plaid button down, dark-wash jeans, and cap toe boots. When I slowed my approach toward him, his brows arched over blue eyes that drank in the sight of me.

I averted my own eyes down to the oak floor.

Be strong. Do not look at that man’s shoulders, crotch—anything. Get the hell in the apartment, I warned myself.

“Lizzie.” He spoke my fake name in a growly voice that danced through my pores, shooting fireworks into every vein. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Oliver.” I held the bottle of wine between my elbow and side. “What are you doing here? Fuck you usually means you don’t show up an hour later.”

Although he moved aside to give me room to unlock my door, I felt the hard muscles of his abs against the side of my body, and I clamped the doorknob tightly. “I took your text as an invitation,” he drawled.