The Lounge isn’t my favorite place in New York City, but it is convenient and relatively private, which is all I care about in this moment. Dave steers the car up to the curb, letting us back out into the heat, which is heavier and more oppressive every time I step out of the car. Juliet’s cheeks are flushed, and she puts a hand up to her eyes as she takes in the low brick building, the front a freshly painted white, sandwiched between an elegant jewelry store and some upscale condos. She takes a deep breath. “So this is where the great Weston Grant likes to eat lunch?”

I shrug, smiling down at her. “If I’m close to the law college and need a place with a decent atmosphere, and I’m pressed for time, then yes, this is where I’d choose to eat.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Visiting the law school, or being pressed for time?”

Juliet laughs out loud. “It’s a stupid question, isn’t it? You must always be pressed for time. Do you even have a free hour to spend with me?”

I offer my arm to Juliet, and she rolls her eyes and heads to the door. “I have this hour,” I call after her, catching up in a few strides. “Given how fast you ran out of Anderson, I think you’re the one with a tight schedule.”

Juliet pulls open the door before I can begin to reach for it and steps into the narrow lobby, her shoulders sagging in the blast of cold air. “Okay, yes.” She turns back to me, eyes shining. “This is an incredible atmosphere.”

“We’re not even inside yet.”

“I could stay right here and be perfectly happy.” She lifts her wrist to glance at her watch. “For at least the next forty minutes.”

“So you do have a tight schedule.”

“I have class.”

Of course she does. “What are we still standing here for?” Juliet laughs a little at that, and I look over her shoulder and give the hostess a nod. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Grant. Your usual table?”

“Please, Meghan.”

“Absolutely.” She removes two slim menus from a shelf in the gleaming black podium and steps across to the entrance of the restaurant, inclining her head.

I turn back to Juliet to offer her my elbow, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She’s not looking at the podium, and she’s definitely not looking into the restaurant. She’s staring at her phone, her mouth pressed into a hard line and two red blotches on her cheeks. It’s a far cry from the gentle flush she had getting out of the car. It’s a damn far cry from the pink that rose to her cheeks when we were talking outside of Anderson. My heart sinks into my gut.

“Juliet?”

She darts her eyes back up at me, then back down at the screen of her phone. “Yes. I’m—” It takes another moment to hear it, but I realize the phone is buzzing in her hand, and the sound sets me on edge. Whatever this is, it’s not pleasant. “I have to take this. I’m sorry.”

“It’s completely not a problem.” Juliet takes one step back toward the door, then turns to the right, her thumb hovering just above the screen. I don’t hesitate, this time. I put my hand above her elbow and steer her to the left, down a hallway that dead ends in a pair of restrooms. Before the restrooms is a sitting room—something left over from the original building, before it was turned into a restaurant. There are a few low tables surrounded by chairs, and Juliet puts her hand on the back of one, swiping at the screen of her phone to connect the call.

“Dad?” She says the word low and urgent into the phone, then straightens her back, raising one hand to grip the handle of her bag. “Darla.” I step back toward the door as soundlessly as I can on the plush carpeting, because she’s clearly forgotten that I’m here. Listening in is just a violation at this point. The last thing I hear as I step across the threshold is, “Is he stable now? No—Darla, I’m working that out. I just need to know—”

I move back down the hallway, heading for the podium as soon as I’m back in the lobby. This doesn’t sound like the kind of conversation that ends in Juliet having lunch with me. Not in the slightest. Meghan looks at me with concern in her eyes. “Everything all right, Mr. Grant?”

“I’m not sure. Would you mind having the kitchen wrap up a couple of Moroccan spiced lamb plates?”

Meghan gives me a serious nod, like I’ve just given her the most important mission in all of New York City. She heads swiftly into the restaurant, making a beeline for the kitchen. She reappears less than five minutes later, two black bags with The Lounge in small silver print on the sides. She’s handing me my card back when Juliet bursts in from the hallway and moves directly to the entrance without breaking her stride. She doesn’t even glance in my direction.

I give Meghan a hasty thank you and follow Juliet out onto the street. She’s already at the curb when I get to her side, scanning the traffic for an available cab.

“I’m sorry.” She glances over once to make sure it’s me, then turns her focus back to the traffic. “I can’t have lunch.”

“I see that. Where are you going?”

“My dad—” She shakes her head. “You don’t need to know about any of this. I just have to go.”

“Juliet.” She doesn’t look at me, just tenses, getting ready to throw her arm out and hail a cab. It’s taken. It’s lunch hour in Manhattan, and there aren’t many cabs to be found. “Juliet.”

The insistent tone makes her whirl around to face me, her violet eyes wide, sharp. “I really have to go.”

“I can take you.”

“There is no possible way on earth that you have time to take me to Forest Hills.”

“Yes, I do. Come on. Get back in the car.”

She hesitates for a split second. “It’s a forty-minute drive there. Maybe more, if traffic—”

“Watch this.” I yank my phone out of my pocket and dial my lead executive assistant, who picks up on the first ring with a crisp, Hello, Mr. Grant. “Cancel all my meetings for this afternoon. Fit them in tomorrow and Wednesday.” Then I hang up. 

Juliet bites her lip and says absolutely nothing for another long moment, a battle waging behind her eyes. I don’t know what the hell it’s about—she took a ride from me to go to lunch, so I’m not sure why Forest Hills is so different, but Juliet is holding herself stiffly above it as long as she can.

It’s not long.

Then her shoulders drop an inch. “Okay. Let’s go.”

I let her get into the car first, sliding in beside her and pulling the door shut hard behind me. “Forest Hills, Dave.” I put the bags on the seat next to me and turn back to Juliet, who’s sitting up straight, eyes on the road in front of us, chin held high. “You can tell me what’s going on while we drive, Juliet James.”