Page 24 of Lucas

My skull pounds and I can’t even blame alcohol.

Nope. This morning’s migraine is the result of being front row at a rock concert for three hours, mingling with the adrenaline rush that comes after spending another incredible night with Lucas.

My heart hums with the unfamiliar sense of contentment. I feel happy, light.

You’re falling for him, Eden.

The realization hits me like a head-on crash.

I’ve tried to deny it, but observing him last night—his electric smile when the band rushed on stage, the way his eyes lit up as they launched into his favorite songs, the transformation from Lucas Hammer, powerful hedge fund CEO to fan boy when we slipped backstage to meet his childhood heroes—it did something funny to my insides.

Sealed the deal.

I pinch my eyes closed, gathering my composure before I walk into the office, unprepared for the barrage of questions my business partners will ask about yet another morning of tardiness. I’m trying to be on time, I swear, but when I wake up with Lucas’s arms and legs intertwined around mine, rolling out of his bed is the last thing on my mind.

Lately, Lucas has encompassed every nook and cranny of my brain—not that I’m complaining.

My cell buzzes, signaling another incoming text. That makes an even ten from Marnie since yesterday afternoon. As if guilt wasn’t already bearing down on me, now I’ll need to account for that too. I’ll feign illness to cover my ass this time, but that excuse won’t wash for long.

At least I don’t have to fake the headache.

A dark-haired, young girl smiles at me from the receptionist desk. “Hi,” she says, with a nauseatingly high pitch to her voice. “Welcome to Rubberneckers.”

My lip curls downward. “Who are you?”

She blinks, clearly confused at my gruffness, but recovers quickly. “Sasha. The new girl…”

New girl? No way. Never mind that Rubberneckers is on the brink of bankruptcy and we’ve already had to let our perfectly-capable former receptionist go, but all HR decisions are made jointly. That’s one of the fundamental tenants of our business model. How was this one made in my absence?

“I’m Eden,” I say, still gruff. Still pissed. It’s not her fault my partners have gone behind my back, but she’s not getting a free pass, either. Something about her rubs me the wrong way. “Marnie and Liz in the back?”

Liz peeks her head over the privacy screen. “Hey…we’ve been trying to call you.”

“Cell’s been acting up,” I mutter, and discreetly put it to silent. So much for playing the sick card. My cheeks burn with shame as the lies keep piling up. “What’s with the new girl?”

Liz gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Sasha is a summer student from Ryerson.”

Great. Now even aspiring journalists can go down with our sinking ship. I hang my coat on the hook designated for my things, averting my gaze from where Austin’s stuff once rested. Fresh guilt weighs heavy on my chest. Maybe if I’d handled that differently, he’d still be here—

But then I would never have met Lucas.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Everything happens for a reason.

Marnie clucks her tongue with disapproval. “If you’d answered your phone, you’d know about Sasha.”

I shrug off their obvious disappointment and head back to the lobby, finger wave at the new girl, and grab a bag of freshly popped corn. Before leaving the lobby, I pause at her desk and conjure up my best smile. “So, Ryerson?”

She nods with vigor, which isn’t the only evidence of her enthusiasm. The desk has been wiped clean of our last receptionist’s things—even her picture—and is now peppered with Sasha’s things—a snapshot of her with friends, a framed photograph of the guy she’s likely dating, some questionable knickknacks that I’m sure she’d happily explain if I gave her an inkling of interest. I can’t bring myself to do it.

“You graduated from NYU, right?” she says.

I hesitate a split second before answering, wondering if she’s comparing our programs. They’re both good, but Ryerson has a more prestigious Journalism program. Another reason why an internship here might not be in her best interest “I did— pretty good school.” Not that it prepared me for the kind of lawsuit Rubberneckers faces. Though, who could have predicted this? Liz, maybe. But then, she’s a fretter.

Which is how I know she’s watching this interaction with guarded approval. I slap my palm down on Sasha’s desk and smile as wide as I can without splitting something. “Welcome! I probably didn’t say that very well before.” Or at all. “I’m a bit of a bear until I’ve had my popcorn and coffee.” Or when my partners don’t tell me what the hell is going on.

I mentally retract that last bit of sarcasm because it’s my own fault I wasn’t informed about the hire.

“Noted,” she says, with a nervous smile.