Page 58 of Riches and Romance

I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “One more thing.”

He stiffens at the touch but has that same shit-eating grin on when he turns around. “Yeah?”

“How’d you find my house that night?”

“Oh.” He relaxes a little. “It was 100 percent luck. I saw that video you tagged Jules in a few weeks ago. I reached out to her on IG, but she never replied.”

“So how did you find myhouse?” I reiterate.

“That’s where the luck comes in. I came off the train at King’s Cross, stopped at the newsagent to buy a pack of Murray Mints, looked down, and what I do see but you on the cover ofArchitectural Digest. The article made the house easy to find. I’ve been thinking about Jules a lot. Really wanting to catch up after a long time. Thought it was worth a shot. So I rang the bell.”

So she lied about that, too.

“Talk about luck,” I say with a forced smile. “See you at seven.”

I pull out my phone to text Jules, but I don’t know what I want to say. I replay the last conversation we had the night before she left and connect dots that flew right over my head.

It wasn’t a coincidence that the one hundred and eighty degree turn she took that night between me leaving and coming back was definitely to do with his appearance. But what she didn’t tell me was thathewas the cause or that she was letting him stay in her flat—a flat I’m now sure she led me to believe she’d vacated when she moved in with me. All of it sets off alarm bells in my head and makes my stomach churn. I look around the market and can’t even remember why I came.

This can’t be right. Jules has been lying to me? That’s impossible. She tells me everything.Iknow her. And she certainly knows me. I’ve bared my entire soul to her. Why doesn’t she trust me?

This week, when it took her three days to call me back, when she’d never taken more than three hours, I knew something waswrong. This morning, she sounded like her old self, but maybe she’s just a really good actress.

No. No. She’s real. There is no faking what’s between us. She moved into my house and wanted to know what her half of the mortgage was. When I told her I didn’t have a mortgage, she insisted on splitting the bills evenly. She still works two jobs, and she’s never even hinted at wanting me to offer to support her financially. If I thought it was what she wanted, I’d be happy to. I love Jules, and I know she loves me.

So catching her red-handed intwolies is disorienting.

I’ll get to the bottom of it tonight. But there’s a part of me that’s not sure I want to know.

CHAPTER 22

VULTURES AND CANARIES

Jules

“I’m home!”

“In the kitchen,” Omar calls out, and I crack the first smile I’ve managed in days just at the sound of his voice.

I toe my trainers off, roll my suitcase to the foot of the stairs, and take a quick peek at my face in the mirror. I look exactly how I feel: exhausted. But dinner with my man is going to be just what the doctor ordered.

I follow the heady aroma of garlic and olive oil and fresh baked bread to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry I’m late, and of course my battery was dead when I?—”

My feet and heart stop dead in their tracks, and I blink hard to make sure I’m not just tired and seeing things. Because there’s absolutely no way that Conrad should be sitting at the counter, resting his elbow on the same surface that Omar and I eat and fuck on.

Conrad picks up a tumbler of amber-colored liquid, leans back in his seat, and smiles. “You’re right on time, Jewel. I was just about to tell a story you haven’t heard before.”

I try to pick my chin up off the floor before I turn to Omar with a “what the fuck is going on here” look on my face. “I didn’t realize Conrad was joining us. I must have missed your text about that.”

He’s at the stove, head bent over the pot he’s stirring. He doesn’t look up, but the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Omar?” I walk closer to him, my imagination running nearly as fast as my pulse. “Did you hear me?”

He nods but keeps his eyes on whatever he’s stirring. “I ran into him at the market and figured since your fridge was empty, it was only hospitable of us to include him. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

He lifts his head to cast me a sidelong glance. His eyes aren’t furious, but he’s pissed. “Conrad’s correct. You’re right on time. Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat.”

I want to refuse, and as if he can tell, the irritation turns into a raised eyebrow, head-cocked challenge. I try to meet his stare, but then his eyes narrow, his chin quivers, and he lets me see that’s not just pissed, he’s hurt.

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