Chapter 14

14

It's approaching five o'clock on Friday and I have big plans tonight. Huge. They involve switching off for a couple of hours with whatever thriller Netflix recommends for me, a frozen pizza I'll buy on the way home, and maybe a pint of Ben I can sympathize with that. And he really did seem to want to just hang out, no ulterior motives. I don't think Lloyd is capable of ulterior motives of any kind, quite frankly—he's too earnest and open.

Elaine and Louis are both out tonight, so I can't rely on them to distract me. Instead, I end up stalking Lloyd's Instagram, which is basically just an advert for the young, rich, and famous. It's pictures of him at fancy bars, in fancy clothes, or pseudo advertisements for Arrowmile, or doing actual brand deals for gadgets or expensive hair products. There aren't many pictures of him with friends, though he must clearly be with people in most of them. There are hardly any photos of him with Will, which I think is a little odd.

Worst of all—his profile is familiar, because it's a glossier version of my own social media. Except mine consists of lonely coffees or family dinners, attempts to show people I do have a life…even if the reality is pretty lonesome and ordinary.

Oh, bloody hell.

Fine.

Fine, he wins.

I scroll through my work emails looking for one from Lloyd, and find his phone number with his email signature.

Anna Sherwood

So, theoretically, if we were to go buy cake instead of stealing it, where would we go for that at eight o'clock on a Friday night?

I get a read receipt within a couple of minutes, and his reply is immediate.

Lloyd Fletcher

Annalise?

Anna Sherwood

Do you invite a lot of people to eat cake on a Friday night?

And here I was starting to worry you didn't have any friends

I'm just realizing that "eat cake on a Friday night" sounds like a euphemism for something

It's not

Or at least, it better not be.

Lloyd Fletcher

Hahahaha def not a euphemism

As you know, I am deadly serious when it comes to food

There's this cool late-night cafe place I know near Southbank. It's kind of like a bar, but they only serve coffees and soft drinks and stuff

They have live music sometimes too

Can meet you there in half an hour?

He sends me a link to this not-a-bar-café, Keye & Shore. It's much more up my street than an actual bar, and I agree to meet him in half an hour before I can think better of it.

I change out of my leggings and University of Leeds Netball Club T-shirt, and try not to think too much about my outfit. It's not like it's a date. It's not like I care what he thinks, or that I even want him to notice how I look.

Except maybe I do? Just a bit.

No. No, I don't.

Still, the place looked kind of cool and fancy on the website, so I pull on my one good going out-out dress, a short-sleeved black one. I pair it with sneakers and denim jacket, not wanting to show up too overdressed, or have Lloyd think I made any particular effort for his sake. Because I didn't. Obviously.

It's not for his sake that I put on some lipstick and a little mascara, either.

I mean, if anything, the lipstick should be a deterrent. I'm not putting it on just for it to get all messed up, after all.

By the time I'm leaving the Tube and following Google Maps, I start to think that I've had a horrible lapse in judgment. It's still light out and the city is bustling with people, though there are hints that night is sweeping in: the crowds gathering near bars, the outfits that have shifted from office-appropriate to distinctly not, the tendrils of purple and pink dusk creeping through the clouds. Looking up to check my bearings against the map, I catch a glimpse of the London Eye. For a moment, I see it lit up against a midnight sky, but I blink and the memory is gone.

I can still taste Lloyd's kiss, his phantom lips against mine.

I almost talk myself out of meeting him. The closer I get to the late-night café, the more adamant the nagging voice in the back of my mind becomes—right now, it's very prominently at the forefront of my mind.

What are you doing? This is the worst idea you've ever had. This is a surefire way to get fired, you absolute idiot. Screwing around with the boss's son. There's no way people won't find out….

"Annalise? Hey! You okay?"

My snippy internal voice is easy to shut down with Lloyd there, pushing off from the lamppost he was leaning a shoulder against to wave at me, his usual dazzling smile on his face. It slips a little when I see him looking me over. Not checking me out—more like something's wrong, and he's looking for what. His eyes flick down to my shoes, searching.

"Did you step in dog shit or something?"

Huh?

Oh, I soon realize. It's me that's wrong. I'm grimacing—and probably look like I just smelled dog shit. Great.

I do my best to rearrange my face into something more neutral. Polite. Civil, like we promised we'd be. I even attempt a smile, but think better of it when it feels too fake. I know he'll see right through me. He's…unusually good at that.

"Sorry. Just, um, checking the map." I wave my phone at him as I click the screen off, shoving it into my bag and then nodding at the café. It's lit up, just a few meters away. "Shall we…go in?"

I gesture for him to lead the way, but he adjusts his pace to fall in step beside me. His arm brushes lightly against mine, elbow nudging the sleeve of my jacket. It's electric. A lightning strike that empties my head of everything except that sensation, every nerve in my body suddenly focusing on that one point of too-brief contact.

However much hanging out with Lloyd feels like a bad idea, there's one singular, crystal clear reason why I changed my mind and agreed to meet him.

He's magnetic.

And I, like everybody else at Arrowmile, am drawn to his good looks, easy charm, friendly smile…and the kindred spirit I think I recognize in him. A moth to a flame.

But then he holds the door open for me and catches my eye to wink, his grin cheeky, spreading wide across his face, and he says, "Knew you'd cave eventually, Annalise. After you."

And just like that, the lightning strike is a distant memory.