She pulled out the blue sweater Mia had given her last Christmas. Put it back. Too casual? She tried on three different outfits before giving up and texting.
Help. What do I wear tomorrow?
For fake shopping with your fake boyfriend?
Yes.
The blue sweater. Makes your eyes pop.
I hate that we think alike.
You secretly love it.
Ava set down her phone and stared at the ceiling.
Fifty-one days left on her contract. And somewhere in this city, a demon was pretending to be her boyfriend while she pretended not to want it to be real.
She pulled the covers over her head.
CHAPTER 5
The elevator to Victor’s penthouse didn’t stop at any other floors.
Ava watched the numbers climb, her overnight bag heavy in her grip.
“Relax,” Victor said. His reflection in the polished doors looked perfectly composed. “It’s just an apartment.”
“Your apartment. Where I’ll be sleeping.”
“In the guest room. With a lock on the door.”
“Right. The lock.”
The doors opened directly into his foyer. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan spread below like a circuit board, lights glittering against darkness.
“Guest room is down the hall,” Victor said, taking her bag before she could protest. “Second door on the right. Bathroom attached.”
The apartment was nothing like she’d expected.
She’d pictured something cold. Artifacts from centuries of existence. Dark wood and older darkness. Instead, there were books everywhere, stacked on the coffee table, lined on built-in shelves, piled on the kitchen counter like they’d escaped from the study and were making a break for freedom.
“You read,” she said.
“Extensively.” He set her bag in the hallway. “Are you hungry? We missed lunch.”
They’d finally managed the shopping trip without work intervening. Three hours at Bergdorf’s with Victor’s black credit card and a personal shopper who didn’t blink when he said, “She needs everything.”
Everything had turned out to be six bags currently sitting in her new closet. Her closet. At his apartment.
“I could eat.” She wandered to the windows. “Do you cook?”
“I manage.” He moved to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Pasta?”
“Sure.”
She watched him work. He’d removed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves. The muscles in his forearms shifted as he chopped garlic. She’d seen him review contracts, command conference rooms, face down ancient demons. Watching him cook felt more intimate than any of it.
“Can I help?”
