Rafael chuckles, and eager to shut Ethan up, I hold up two plates and wait as they serve themselves. Sherlock joins us, meowing as he begs for food or attention.
Lunch goes by the way it usually does—with banter and chatter and the chaos that makes us the perfectly dysfunctional family we’ve been for the past three years. And as with every lunch since Ethan moved out, he stands right after the meal, says goodbye, and rushes back to his friends and his life.
“He looks good,” Rafael says as he washes the dishes. He turns to look at me over his shoulder. “I mean, his sister looks better, but…”
“Yeah.” I swat his ass with a dish towel. “He looks happy.”
He holds out his hand, water dripping onto the kitchen rug, and I hand him the towel. When I don’t let go, he smirks, tugging it to pull me closer. “God, getting an office was a mistake.”
We kiss, his wet hand grazing my cheek.
“Hmm.” I tug his hair. “The house feels empty without you.”
“Doyoufeelemptywithout me?”
I huff on his lips, very much like a dog in heat. “Only all the time.”
He pulls me closer. “Then we better get going, birthday girl. Are we taking my car or yours?”
“Going? Where?”
There’s matching confusion on his face. “The lookout?” Noticing the blank look I’m giving him, he lets out a soft laugh. “The book you left in my office, Scarlett.”
“I didn’t leave anything in your office.”
His chin jerks back. He heads to the entryway and pulls a small paperback from his jacket pocket.The Art of Falling Slowly—excellentfake-dating romance. I recognize it from the cover. “Look inside,” he says. He hands it to me, and I flip to the first page.
Scarlett, it reads above the title. And beneath it:Page 176, line 32.
“What in the name…” I mutter, flipping through.
Rafael leans over and points. “I’ll save you the counting.”
Once they walked past the hill, the lookout loomed ahead.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Me neither.” His brow furrows. “I thought your name meant this was from you, but—”
“But whoever wrote this put my namebeforethe message, not after.”
“So maybe it’sforyou,” Rafael says, echoing my thoughts. He takes the book from my hands, glaring at it like it’s trying to hurt me. “Who the fuck would do this?”
Reminded of how the conversation started, I ask, “Where did you think we were going?”
“Hmm?” He’s still flipping through the book like it might contain a hidden bomb.
“You said we better get going?”
“Oh. Yeah. When I thought this wasfromyou, I assumed this line meant you wanted to go to the lookout by the rails.”
Of course.I smile despite myself. On our first anniversary, we attempted a hike. Big mistake. By the time we were halfway up the trail, I was covered in mosquito bites and had tripped three times, and my feet felt like I was walking on hot coals. Rafael, ever the hero, pretendedhewas exhausted and suggested we find a place to have our picnic.
That’s how we found the lookout—a grassy bluff past an overgrown trail, overlooking the abandoned train tracks and a sparkling stretch of river. It wasn’t even on the map. We ate cold takeout and fought against a champagne bottle neither of us could open.
And yes—I ended up straddling him beneath the stars, jeans tugged down just far enough, one hand gripping his hair, the other bracing me against a tree root.
“What if thatisthe message?”
