Page 80 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“W-well, all I know is that she walked out of here saying this place sucks and…”

“And what?”

“That we all need to pull our heads out of our asses?”

Sounds about right. “Thank you,” I say.

I grab Lizzie’s address from accounting and call Derek.

An hour later, he’s parking a half a block down from her home. It’s a prewar building in a gloomy section of Hell’s Kitchen. No doorman. Not a good neighborhood.

I figure out her windows are on the fifth floor, probably the last two windows on the side, overlooking the courtyard.

This is more like where scrappy Operator Seven would live. Lizzie Cooper. Lizzie. She feels right. Absolutely right in every way.

Derek doesn’t ask why I make him sit out there. He doesn’t question me. Hardly anyone does.

Except her.

I wait, desperate for a glimpse of her. I want to see what she looks like when she’s not trying to be invisible, to feel her breath against my skin and hear her whispered words, know what she loves, how she lives, everything.

Googling turns up dozens of Elizabeth Coopers. I forward her HR file, which conveniently contains her Social Security number, to my PI for an expedited background check.

My impulse is to go right up there, but I stop myself.

She hates to be pushed, controlled.

I have to do this right.

Twenty-Three

Lizzie

I spendFriday morning making cheerful posts on my bakery blog, and then I make Facebook posts that link to them.

One of the posts is a discussion of why cookies sometimes spread into an ugly mess (usually too much sugar, because sugar retains water, or a too-hot oven). And then a lighthearted update on my ongoing experiments in baking with tea. Maybe if I make enough of those cheerful posts, the fabric of reality itself will be altered.

As soon as rush hour’s over, I take the rings my grandmother left me when she died to the pawn shops, something I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to do. It’s an utterly distressing task, but better than being maimed or killed or made a drug mule.

I walk out with two thousand dollars and a heavy heart.

After that, I go around to caterers to see whether there’s anyone who’ll pay me up front for three weeks of work—that’s how long I have in the apartment. My ads for a subletter all say it starts the first of April.

The caterers all turn me down. I think my desperation scares them.

I’m back just after noon, making a new list of caterers to hit after lunch. I’m cheap and good—it’ll be a perfect deal for the right caterer. It won’t be enough money, but it’ll be something to show Lenny I’m trying.

Meanwhile, Mia can’t be around for whatever fallout there is.

My plan to keep her out involves installing a sliding bolt on the inside of the door. Literally locking her out. I’ve arranged to have her stay on a mutual friend’s couch. She’ll be pissed as hell.

But safe.

So that’s my plan. I look at the pristine skin on my arm. What does it mean to carve up a person’s arm? Do they carve a message, like,pay up? Or just stab it a bunch of times?

I nearly jump out of my skin when the buzzer sounds. I go to the panel, heart racing, unsure whether I should answer. They can’t be here already. It’s Friday. The money isn’t due until Sunday morning. “Hello?”

“Delivery for Ms. Cooper.”

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