Page 13 of Only Lovers in the Building

“I have enough insight to know when I’ve been insulted.”

He went silent, which infuriated her. She could kiss him or accuse him of libel—it didn’t matter. He would keep his cool. Lily had no doubt that this quiet, focused man was a literary scholar in disguise. She felt suddenly self-conscious, aware of what she must look like in the plushy robe stolen from the resort she’d fled the day before, clutching a hairbrush in one hand and a phone in the other. What must he think of her!

“Is it the coffee?” he asked. “You didn’t like it?”

“No!” she cried, appalled. “Why would you say that? Didn’t you get my note?”

She’d rinsed the mug and returned it with a note scribbled on a page ripped from her daily planner. It read Thanks for the love.

“I got it.” He was leaning against the doorway now, arms folded across his chest. “It was sweet.”

“If that’s the case, why are you trolling me?”

“Trolling you?” He considered her carefully. “I don’t understand. I would never insult or troll you. What are you talking about?”

Trolling was a little strong, but she would not back down. “I’ll read the record to refresh your memory.”

“All right, then.” He mimicked her tone. “Go on.”

Lily tapped on the phone screen and read the comment aloud. Ben’s face registered his surprise. “I posted that a minute ago.”

“More like five minutes.”

“What does it have to do with you?” he asked. “I was disputing a point made in a book review.”

“That was my point you were disputing, my book review, my lack of insight into the complexities of the human psyche.”

“Was it?”

She held up her phone. He narrowed his eyes as he read the screen. “@LegalLyon . . . That’s you?” he asked.

“As if you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t,” he insisted. “I comment on book reviews all the time. It’s my thing.”

She scoffed. “You comment on random reviews? Even of books you haven’t read?”

Who was she to question him? Up until minutes ago, she’d thought he was a grad student, wrapping up an MFA or similar.

“No, never,” he said. “What would be the point of that?”

“You read The Sweetest Lie?” Lily asked, incredulous. Back in New York, it wasn’t uncommon to spot a hot guy on the subway with his nose buried in a book. Yet it was generally accepted among her friends that those men were posers or figments of their collective imagination. Once they stepped off the train, these men disappeared, dissolved into the city, never to be seen again.

“It’s not my preferred genre,” he admitted. “But I’ll read anything that isn’t nailed down. I found it lying around my place, read it, and kind of liked it. Your review was harsh. You’re essentially saying people can’t change.”

“They can, but they rarely do,” Lily retorted. “And what do you mean you found the book lying around your place?” She found it hard to picture the hot bartender curled up with a romance novel.

“Someone left it behind.”

“Who?”

He stepped back and opened the door wider, giving her a glimpse into his apartment and of the woman, a raven-haired beauty with coal eyes like his, lounging on his sectional sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table. She waved hello to Lily, smiling, friendly.

Lily went up in flames.

“Believe me now?” Ben asked.

She nodded and, without another word, stepped away from his door. Moving slowly, oh so carefully, so as to not set the entire building on fire, she retreated to her apartment to die, alone, in shame.