Page 63 of The Love Destroyers

I laugh in spite of myself. “Well, let’s do this, I suppose.”

She nearly runs over a big, musclebound guy wheeling his trashcan in—and gives him the finger for his trouble. He gives her the finger back, and she honks her horn.

“Aren’t you supposed to be keeping a low profile?” I ask.

“Thisisme keeping a low profile. We’re in Charlotte. Most of the people here are assholes, so we need to speak their language.”

I look out the window, watching as we approach the familiar purple house. It’s a single story ranch, with yellow shutters covered in vines that look real on camera but are obviously fake as shit now that we’re here in person. Ellie made a thirty-minute video in which she picked out the color of the yellow paint—lemon buttercream—which I can only assume had fifty thousand likes because she was wearing a low-cut shirt and constantly kept panning the camera down.

Nicole parks at the curb and gives me a nod. “You’re on. Remember. There’ll be no punching of any kind. Not yet. Oh, by the way, I have a different outfit for when I’m Nicky, the contest supervisor. Damien goes by Dan. This is my cool driver look, but I have another wig for when I need to switch roles.”

“Very cool. You don’t think she’ll notice?”

“No,” she says with a snort. “I’m very good at disguising myself. Besides, I doubt she’ll care, with you around. Your name is Alfonso.”

“Seriously? You guys get to basically keep your names, but I’m Alfonso?”

She lifts a shoulder. “Damien and I came up with the names when we were drunk. You can ask her to call you Al if you want. Now, get out there, slugger!”

So I take a deep breath, put on a fake-as-shit smile, and then leave the car and head for the door. I knock twice.

“Leave me alone, you asshole!” shouts someone from inside the house. “Stop knocking on my door. I never want to see you again.”

Huh. I’ve been called an asshole before, sometimes not without reason, but usually I have to show my face first.

I knock again.

“I said leave me alone!” she screams, and then the door flies open, revealing a blonde woman wearing a barely-there silk robe. She’s pretty—and practically naked—but although I’m aware of both things, they’re facts that hold no interest for me. I’d prefer not to consider why. “Oooh.”

“Am I the asshole?” I ask with a broad grin, because, hell, I know how to charm women, and I’ve been informed that’s my job.

“No,” she says, glancing out the door, her gaze panning either way and taking in the car at the curb. She sucks in her lower lip. “I can’tbelievehe just left like that.”

“Neither can I.” I give her an appreciative glance, because this is part of the game. Because it’s for Emma.

She blushes, registering that she’s wearing a robe in front of a complete stranger who hasn’t introduced himself. The way she’s looking at me shifts into a different kind of awareness. That’s good. People are more likely to be indiscreet if they find you attractive, but it feels distasteful—probably because Ellie played a role in hurting Emma too.

“I’m Al—” I can’t call myself Alfonso with a straight face, so I cut myself off. “The lucky guy who gets to be your assistant. From the contest. I’m here to take you to Asheville.”

“Yeah,” she says, then bites her bottom lip as she studies me. “I figured when I saw the car. That’s good.” She glances me up and down. “Wow. Yeah. I had no idea you’d be… Well.You. Why don’t you come inside for a minute while I make myself decent?”

“Please,” I say with a grin. “I’d love to see how you can improve on perfect.”

I imagine Emma rolling her eyes at me, and it makes my grin widen.

Ellie opens the door wider, motioning me inside. I take a second to modulate my reaction, because the cream and gold-footed couch and the rabbit retreat next to it are immaculate, and the rest of the house is a complete disaster. I’m not saying that to be a dick—there are boxes everywhere, in various states of being collapsed, toiletries litter most of the surfaces, and I can see at least two containers of half-empty takeout. Three suitcases are sitting by the door, so shewaspreparing for the trip before the “asshole,” presumably Jeffrey, pulled something.

“Is this where the magic happens?” I ask as I step inside.

She shuts the door behind me, and I can tell she’s wrestling with some sort of internal dilemma. Her next action clarifies which decision she made…

She backs me into the door.

“You know,” she says, her voice sultry. “I’ve been seeing all of these videos about the full moon Leap Day. They say it’s a time to take chances, and I’m going to embrace that.”

“You should,” I encourage her, mentally rolling my eyes at this sign that the full moon Leap Day nonsense has gained traction.

She eyes me up. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. What do you say we make some magic happen right now?”

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