Last Light(66)

I skimmed the Night Owl review. It raved about the hot sex and “unputdownable” nature of the book. I sighed.

“I hate to tell you this, Nate, but reviews like this are all over the Internet.”

“Yes, but not by users who also have accounts at the Mystic Tavern, the site where—”

“I know, I know.”

“And not by users who check the book’s rank on the bestseller list dozens of times a day, Hannah. This is the one.”

I shuffled to the next page and stopped. This is the one. Who is the one? I stared at the printout of Melanie’s profile. “Impossible,” I whispered.

“She looks so young, I know.”

I began to laugh. The sound was hysterical and unstoppable. Melanie. Alexis Stromgard. Matt’s “private driver” stared at me from the page. There was her unmistakable hair, the short red waves surrounding her face. She grinned at me like she’d grinned at Matt while I watched from the bedroom window.

“Hannah?”

My laughter rose and rose, and then it stopped. I felt nauseous.

“She’s just … so young,” I stammered. No—what did this mean? It couldn’t be a coincidence. The girl who published Night Owl couldn’t work as a private driver for hire on Craigslist and just happen to be working for Matt.

Matt lied to me. Again.

Matt knew who she was and he lied to me.

All this time, he knew who put Night Owl online. While I dodged Shapiro and Nate and Aaron Snow. While I lied for him, he lied to me.

Questions swarmed my mind. I covered my mouth and pressed my forehead against the car window. Tears threatened, stinging in my eyes.

“Hannah, please. Talk to me.” Nate touched my shoulder. He always touched my shoulder, my elbow, somewhere chaste and safe. After a moment, his hand slid to the middle of my back. “I shouldn’t have brought this up. It makes you miserable. God, I’m so insensitive.”

Nate loosened the papers from my hand and shoved them back in the glove box.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled.

“No, you aren’t. I can’t imagine how horrible it’s been for you—this book circulating—after everything that happened. Forget this, please. Look at me.”

I swiped my coat sleeve across my face and turned to Nate. I almost started to cry again when I saw his worried gaze.

“Do you seriously”—I sniffled—“think she wrote it?”

“I think she published it. Did she write it? Maybe not. She’s legally liable for distributing it, though—and more so if it’s not her own work. But that doesn’t matter, Hannah.” Nate tilted my chin up. I flinched at the touch. His long, elegant hand was exactly like Matt’s, but his eyes were far kinder. Why didn’t guys like Nate ever fall for me? “The lawsuit, I can see how much it bothers you. If you wanted me to drop it, you only ever had to ask.”

Nate’s words settled on me slowly.

He would drop the lawsuit for me, which Matt and I wanted all along.

“No,” I said. I buckled my seat belt and steadied my breath. “I don’t want you to drop it, Nate. I want you to ruin that girl’s life. And I want a drink.”

*

Nate was staying in the Chancellor’s Suite at the Hotel Teatro.

“I have a bottle in the room,” he told me, which turned out to be two bottles—Johnnie Walker Quest and Balvenie. (And “the room” turned out to be three rooms—a bedroom, boardroom, and living room—with wood-paneled walls, European furniture, a table for ten, and a limestone fireplace. Damn.) “Too early for this?” He lifted the Balvenie. “I like to bring something nice when I travel. I’d rather not be at the mercy of wet bars, if you know what I mean.”

Nate seemed altogether comfortable with me in his hotel room, maybe because Owen was present. After Nate carried him up, Owen went straight to the bedroom. I heard the TV.

I checked my watch. “It’s past noon. A good time for a drink.”

“Agreed, Miss Catalano. Single malt or blend?”

I blushed. Scotch whiskey was all Greek to me.

“Whatever you’re having,” I said. I draped my coat over the couch and sat, my fingers fidgeting on the damask fabric.

“Single malt, then. The Quest was a gift.” Nate smiled and poured a small amount of alcohol into two tulip-shaped glasses. “Did you know I have friends in Denver? Old college friends. I’ve had a chance to visit with them this week.” He brought the glass to me and sat near the arm of the couch, putting a few feet between us.

I tried not to frown at the tiny amount of booze. I wanted to get drunk. Seriously drunk. I wanted to turn off my brain and stop picturing Matt and Melanie and wondering what the hell I should do about Matt’s latest lie. Or lies. What else was Matt hiding? Were Melanie and Matt in cahoots, publishing Night Owl together? Were they f*cking? Had he even sent her away?

I shuddered.

I wanted to shoot my drink, but I glanced at Nate and followed his lead. He gave his glass a swirl, gazed at the film of scotch, and then brought it to his nose and inhaled. I did the same.

Nate lowered the glass, lifted it again, smelled the booze. I sighed and copied him. The second whiff of whiskey was lighter. A complex, peaty aroma filled my nostrils. “Tastes even better,” Nate murmured. I flinched. He was grinning at me.