I don't answer.
The doorbell rings.
Lucy practically sprints to the window. Peeks through the curtain. Gasps. "He's here! And oh my god, Alena, he's fit. Like… proper fit. I might steal him myself."
"Go ahead. But run fast because Marcus will be on your tail before you know it."
She smiles. She always liked Marcus’s possessiveness, as I liked Drogo’s. "Not a chance." She grabs my hand. Pulls me toward the stairs. "Come on. Don't keep Prince Charming waiting."
• • •
I open the door.
Oliver Sutherland stands on my porch looking like he walked out of a magazine ad for expensive watches. Tall. Brown hair swept back. Green eyes. Tailored navy suit thatprobably cost more than my first car. Smile that's just the right amount of confident without tipping into arrogant.
Perfect.
"Alena," he says, voice smooth. British. Posh but not obnoxiously so. "You look stunning."
"Thanks. You look… clean."
He laughs. Genuine. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Behind me, Lucy is practically vibrating with excitement. She waves at him. "Hi! I'm Lucy. Best friend. Emotional support. Don't fuck this up."
"Lucy—" I start.
"I'm kidding!" She grins. "Mostly. Have fun, you two."
Oliver opens the car door for me. Black Aston Martin. Even though it’s one of my favourite cars, I hate Aston Martins after Drogo vanished. Fucker took my heart and my passion with him when he disappeared. I slide in. Leather seats. New car smell. Classical music playing softly. Classical. I am too old for this shit. Who are you trying to impress?
He gets in the driver's side. Smiles at me. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
He pulls away from the curb. I glance back. Lucy is standing in the doorway, grinning like a maniac, giving me two thumbs up like I'm going to fucking prom. I resist the urge to flip her off.
• • •
The restaurant is in Mayfair. Michelin-starred. The kind of place where they don't list prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
We're seated at a corner table. Candlelight. White tablecloth. Soft jazz playing in the background.
Oliver orders wine. Something French. Something expensive.
"So," he says, leaning back in his chair, completely at ease. "Lucy tells me you're a writer."
"She talks too much."
He grins. "She's enthusiastic. I like that about her."
"Everyone does. It's exhausting."
The wine arrives. He pours. Hands me a glass. I take it. Sip. It's good. Too good. The kind of wine that makes you forget you're supposed to be sober-ish.
"What do you write?" he asks.
"Horror."
