Too bad they couldn’t leave that night. Genevieve had a client meeting she couldn’t postpone, but first thing Friday morning, they were out. Larkin looked at her phone. Only fourteen more hours and packing would take at least three of them. She could stretch out her bath and nighttime routine to two. That’d leave nine to occupy. Perhaps sleep would take a few.

She pressed the call button. “Darren, will you come into my office, please?”

“Right away,” he chimed.

Not thirty seconds later, the door opened, and his bright face popped around the corner. “I just want you to know that while I love working for Reagan and hope she returns this very minute, I love, love, love her job. Today alone, I spoke with the mayor. The man himself, not a secretary or associate. The mayor of New York City. And I received two marriage proposals. Though you have me beat on that front by a lot.” He swaggered across the room and stopped opposite her desk. “And I think those other two were probably meant for you too, but they were over the phone, and I was on the other line. So I’m claiming them.”

Seeming to realize he’d been summoned, he snapped to attention. “What can I do for you?”

“I need to know how many of the other kind of letters I received.”

“Oh.” His face fell. Thin, long fingers tangled into elegant knots and wound around and around. “I really don’t think you should focus on the negativity. It’s bad for your skin. Some people are just rotten eggs. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, Darren.” She couldn’t help but smile. He was so vibrant and full of life. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“You received twenty outright proposals and twelve ‘if the date goes well’ proposals.” He beamed. “Plus, the long-term patients of Lenox Hill all have stunning arrangements. And I sent all the chocolates to the battered women’s shelter in Brooklyn. Goodness knows they need it. Nothing makes a situation better than chocolate. Well”—he covered his mouth with the back of his hand—“nothing less complicated, anyway.”

“I appreciate all your help today.”

“No problem at all.” He shooed her with both hands but stilled. “Except for that crazy lady. I’m so sorry about that. Nothing I could say was going to make her go away.”

“I don’t think we’ll have that problem with her again.”

“Shoot no,” Darren snapped. “You put her in her place just like that. It was a beautiful thing to watch.”

Larkin hid her smile because sometimes she had to be a professional. “You’re free to go home as soon as you tell me the number of other letters.”

“The one you found this afternoon and two more.” He grimaced.

“Thank you, Darren.”

“My pleasure. They’re on my desk in a folder labeled Trifler.”

“Okay then.” Her sides ached from holding back a giggle. Whoever sent those letters was, indeed, and aptly labeled, a trifler.

“Night, Miss Ashford.” Darren left as boldly as ever, strutting his stuff as if he were on a runway or surveying the offerings at the club.

“Night.”

Larkin toed off her stilettos, propped her feet on her desk, and grabbed the flask from behind her back. She shook it. The liquid sloshed about, hitting high on the halfway mark. Thank goodness it was a small one, and she’d been nursing it for the last hour. Drunk packing was the worst. You never ended up with what you needed. And no one needed salad tongs in their suitcase. She’d had quite the time explaining that one to TSA. It’d been Vegas, though, so they’d seen plenty worse.

The whisky dulled the sharpest edge of her pain. On the flip side, it muddied her thoughts, making them harder to control. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face hovering over her. His eyes burning a hole through her heart. Sometimes, she saw the word CUNT admonishing her for a transgression she hadn’t known she made. Other times, she saw the paparazzi with their aggressive stances and blinding flashes.

She pressed the metal to her lips and tipped it high. The cold liquid burned its way down her throat.

“Larkin?”

Whisky seared her nose when she jackknifed. The door Darren had exited less than five minutes ago swung open.

Her stupid, traitorous heart gained wings and soared through her chest, ignoring the fact she choked. He’d come back. Her hand flattened over her sternum. Good thing. It had to catch her heart from plummeting to the ground.

Lucas stepped inside with two armfuls of flower arrangements. “I didn’t know if you’d still be here.”

Why had she allowed herself to think for one second that it was Beckett, coming to profess his love and beg that they give this thing a go? Because she was a stupid, stupid little girl with stupid little girl dreams—no matter how much she wanted to deny it. She blamed her mother and society at large. Goddamned Disney. Imaginary princesses weren’t adequate babysitters.

“If you had knocked, you would have known.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and straightened.

“Sorry.” He waved the arrangements back and forth as though they were peace offerings. They were the opposite of peace.

“You can leave those on Darren’s desk. We’re donating them to local hospitals.”

“Oh.” He stopped at the coffee table and set them down. “That’s nice.”

“They need them more than I do.” She capped the flask and set it on her desk.

“You shouldn’t drink alone.” He continued toward her desk as though she’d invited him inside.

“Yet it’s exactly what I’m doing and will continue to do as soon as you tell me what it is you need?”

When he rounded her desk, she stood. “That’s far enough.”

“Larkin.” His hands raised palms out. “I’m not trying anything. I just …” He shoved his fists into his pockets.

“Just what, Lucas?” She shoved her feet inside her shoes, not liking the massive height disparity.

“Fuck, Larkin.” His blue eyes glared.

Her gaze found her purse, only two feet away on her desk, gun locked and loaded just under the flap.

“You said you weren’t looking for the one.” He looked toward the ceiling. The veins in his neck plumped with blood. “Apparently, you were just looking for richer. More accomplished.”

“Lucas.” She forgot the gun and stared him directly in the eyes. “You’re a hero. There is no higher accomplishment than saving someone’s life. None.” Her head shook. “I’m just not looking for any of that.”

“Why do the papers say you are?” he snapped.

“Because the papers say whatever they need to in order to sell.”

His shoulders slumped. The once proud soldier stood before her defeated by the real world, and she hated it. “If this were a movie, if I were a normal girl without scars so deep you can’t see, we would’ve already set a date.” She eased around the end of her desk to catch his eye. “But this isn’t a movie, and I’m damaged goods.”

“You’re perfect,” he whispered.

“Not even close.” Larkin grabbed her purse, hooked it onto her shoulder, and grabbed the flask. “You know your way out.” She headed for her exit.

“You’re leaving this weekend?”

Larkin stopped a few feet from the door that led to the stairs to her home, her solemn sanctuary. “How do you know that?”

“The girls were talking about it on their way out.”

She turned to look at him.

“They’re loud.” He shrugged.

That they were.

“Yes. We’re leaving in the morning.”

“I’ll get the house swept and set a parameter before you arrive. I’ll get Carl to take lead here.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

His jaw flexed, and nostrils flared. “Women in a house alone isn’t wise.”

More often than not, she was alone. Sure, there was building security, but as Beckett proved, that was just a superficial comfort. She was born alone and would die that way.

“We won’t be alone. We’ll be together. We’ll be armed. We’ll be in The Hamptons. We’ll be fine.”

“I hope you have a good time.” Lucas offered a small bow and turned to leave. He walked past the arrangements and out the door, leaving her irritated and confused and relieved and more alone than she’d been before his interruption.