Time (Laws of Physics #3)(74)

I straightened, pleased, sliding a hand down the front of my jacket. “Do you like it? I had it made in New York.”

“Do I like it? Does each action have an equal but opposite reaction?”

“Nerd.”

“Sorry. Newton. Not the fig kind.”

I laughed. “Mona. Where are you?”

“I’m here, but I need another minute to admire that to which I aspire.”

“Nice rhyme. Come here.”

“Not yet. Do that circle spinning thing again.”

“I’m feeling a little objectified right now,” I teased.

“Then your feelings are spot on.”

I turned quickly, because I heard her voice in stereo that time—over the phone and nearby—my attention skimming the crowd, focusing on those closest until I found a woman staring at me. Except—

Wait.

“Mona?”

She wore a mischievous grin and fire engine red lipstick that matched her short dyed hair—no, not her hair. A wig. Her eyes were lined in thick black makeup, her body encased in a tight black shirt, a leather skirt, and black and white striped thigh-high stockings. On her feet she sported combat boots. Around her neck was a leather choker with spikes, and in the center of her nose was a ring.

“Hey, handsome.”

Officially speechless, I stared at her. One hundred percent sure it was Mona, but still disbelieving my eyes, I unabashedly devoured this unexpected but not at all unwelcomed sight.

Her grin widened and she strolled closer, hooking a leather jacket at her shoulder over her black backpack.

Biting her tongue playfully, she wagged her eyebrows. “Looks like you’re not the only one in disguise, Wall Street.”





I couldn’t stop staring at her legs. A big problem since I also wasn’t used to driving on the left side of the road.

When Mona flew up last week for the bachelorette party, she’d taken the train out to the countryside and back to the airport without much issue. She’d been photographed just twice at Heathrow as she arrived, and only once in the Underground.

But this time, as we would be together, we’d implicitly agreed on renting a car. Once the news of our relationship broke last March, it seemed like traveling together on any public transportation—or even walking together on the street, no matter where we were in the world—ultimately led to mobs and disaster.

“Watch out,” she said for the tenth time because it was my tenth turn. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

“You can drive if you want.” I shrugged, clearing my throat and struggling not to stare at her thighs again. Something about the combination of the thigh-highs and the leather skirt—something about all of it—made me want to do very, very bad things. “But then my hands will be free, and we might not make it to Marie’s rehearsal at all.”

Mona laughed, sounding delighted. “Okay, subject change. How are you? How’s the new album? How’s the band?”

“Great, now. We’re almost ready for the studio. Charlie and Ruthie are looking forward to spending Christmas in Geneva, and you’ll get to meet Broderick.” After the wedding, I would be flying back with her to Switzerland and that was it. No more tour. No more concert dates on the calendar. No more meeting in random cities for only days or hours and then parting for weeks. We would be living together from now on. Finally.

I didn’t blame Mona for deciding to stay at CERN through the fall semester. The work she did sounded exciting—well, she made it sound exciting—plus every time she stepped foot in the USA she was mobbed by paparazzi. We’d hired her a bodyguard the last time we’d met up—in Miami—but, honestly, I didn’t want her traveling in the States unless we were on the same plane.

Where I went, the band and support personnel followed. The new album would be recorded in Switzerland, with pickups and final mastering in LA after Mona and I returned to the States.

“How about you? Work? Grants? Those assholes still withholding your funding?”

One of the deepest lows came two months ago. According to Mona, the funding for three of her grants—which were fully awarded through the remainder of the fiscal year ending in June—had been suddenly halted, the grants managers claiming they required rereview of her progress reports.

That was bullshit. She insisted it could be anything—maybe she’d pissed off someone during the London symposium over the summer, maybe she’d irritated an important person at CERN, maybe one of her thesis advisors was frustrated that she hadn’t returned to LA yet—who knows?

But I assumed the culprit was our relationship. She received the notice one week after we were photographed together in Rome having a romantic dinner at the Piazza Navona. She’d worn an unbelievable red dress and the press had gone nuts, calling her the “Philandering Physicist.”

Philandering? What? Fucking idiotic nonsense. It didn’t even make sense.

Currently, Mona sighed. Shrugged. Sighed again. “It doesn’t matter. I figured out a solution. I should be able to defend my thesis in the spring without funding issues.”

I glanced at her, surprised. “You got the Darwinger grant?”

“No,” she ground out. “It went to someone else.”

Motherfu— “Then how . . .?”