Finding Him (Covet 2)

It was always harder at night.

And rationally I knew that there was nothing different at night, just the absence of light, but for some reason that absence just reminded me that he was gone and that I was all alone, living without him.

I popped a small pill, but it did nothing to ease the anxiety twisting my stomach into knots—because if they knew about Julian, the brand that I’d built would be in jeopardy and even more so, it would impact the book.

The one thing I had promised to do.

Write our story.

And it could all go up in flames with one social media post holding Julian’s hand.

It wasn’t fair.

To either of us.

Then again, it wasn’t like it was going to go beyond just that one time, right? I gulped. The problem was that I liked him, I liked his raw honesty, his sensitivity, and the way that he made me feel when I talked about Noah. He didn’t cut me off or start talking about himself; he was eerily quiet and made me think he wanted to know more.

But we weren’t in the cabin anymore, secluded away from the real world. I mentally prepared myself for all of the media at his surprise party. I’d thank him for his help at the cabin and I’d move on.

I would not repeat the same mistake of leaning into his cologne or letting my heart slam against my chest every time he smiled at me.

I’d say happy birthday, and I’d bolt.

Perfect plan.

If only I had confidence that I could stick to it without falling for his lethal charms.

Chapter Twenty-Four

JULIAN

The city was always my favorite place at night, something about the lights made me feel alive even when I was in a bad mood and bored out of my mind. And not just that, but torturing myself with images and memories of my night with Keaton, like reliving it in my head was going to be anything like the real thing. The car pulled up to another stoplight. I was probably going to be late, and I really didn’t care.

If I had it my way, I’d make an appearance, shake hands, drink one glass of champagne, then go back to my apartment and creep Keaton’s Instagram like I’d been doing for the past week and a half.

I’d yet to grow a pair of balls and message Keaton, but I’d done a really good job of looking over every single picture she posted like a madman, and when I came to the pictures of her and Noah, some sick curiosity took over.

My forced vacation was turning me into a stalker.

And not even a really good one.

We’d gotten back into the city late on a Wednesday, it was already a week and a half later, and all I’d done was convinced myself that Noah was superhuman and that no man would ever compare to him.

Literally.

I wasn’t even exaggerating; that’s the caption she wrote beneath the last photo of them a year ago.

I was driving myself crazy.

Hadn’t done anything except work out and watch TV, and Bridge wouldn’t stop calling me to remind me about the business dinner I was en route to.

I didn’t even bother with a tie.

I almost laughed, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. Last year I wouldn’t have been caught dead going to a business dinner without running a lint roller over my suit, and today I’d gotten ready in ten minutes and called it good.

When the car pulled up to the curb, I realized that was most likely a grievous error on my part.

Paparazzi lined a red carpet leading to the stairs and all the way up into the entrance, and hanging from the building was a banner with the largest picture of my face I had ever seen. Seriously, billboard-sized.

Scrawled between our two photos, in letters probably ten feet tall, was Happy Birthday, Julian and Bridge!

I was killing Izzy.

This had her written all over it.

I gritted my teeth until my jaw hurt and ran my hands through my hair before the door opened and, like an out-of-body experience, like walking through mud, I slowly made my way up the stairs amidst screams from the media.

“Is it true you cheated on your fiancée and she left you for your brother?”

“Are you gay?”

“Did someone murder your mother?”

“Julian, are you still on drugs?” Seriously?

“Your father said you have a drinking problem . . .” Oh good, let’s talk about him on my birthday.

My plan had been to celebrate with a quiet dinner at the apartment followed by Jimmy Fallon.

God, I was a mess.

I forced a smile I didn’t feel as cameras flashed and more questions were fired toward me. I felt old, so old in that moment, older than my thirty-two years as I finally made it to the top of the stairs to see Izzy waving wildly at me. She was in a sleek black dress that hugged every curve, including her rapidly growing stomach.