Page 3 of The Illusion
Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "And don't let a man weave a spell around you. Because when it falls apart, and it will, you'll realize you never knew him at all. And the pain of that is nearly unbearable. Only you two make any of that worth it."
After she leaves, I promise myself that I'll see the difference between the performance and the person. That I'll watch for the signs.
That I'll never mistake an illusion for the truth.
CHAPTER
ONE
JULIE- FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
Saturdays are sacred,at least according to my sister Jamie, who calls them my "romanticizing life" days. She isn't wrong. Coffee, a visit to the bookstore, maybe fresh flowers from Whole Foods. And if Seattle is feeling generous and not dumping rain from the sky, I might even sit outside somewhere and pretend my life has a soundtrack.
Today's plan is simple: Barnes & Noble, two hours minimum, which is basically heaven for me. I'll likely leave with two books I don't need, one I absolutely do, and a card or journal that I'll put in the bin in my hall closet, which my mom calls my hidden treasure. I can't help it that I'm a sucker for beautiful stationery, cards, journals, and pens. No regrets.
I'm locking my apartment door when I hear a throat clear. "Morning."
I know who it is before I look up because my body has apparently decided to become deeply embarrassing about the man in 3B, my new next-door neighbor. Tall, dark hair, easy smile, the kind of man who looks unfairly good in a henley andjeans. I glance over and immediately in my head I hear Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman saying,Big mistake. Big. Huge.
And yeah, it was a mistake to look without bracing because he's leaning against his doorframe, all broad shoulders and casual confidence, smelling insanely good, something with amber and musk that makes me feel some type of way. I swear I'd climb this man like a rock wall if given the chance. I've certainly thought about it multiple times at night with my vibrator, which is why I can feel my face flushing right now.
"Um. Hey. Morning," I say, fumbling with my keys because apparently my hands forget how to operate when the hot guy from next door speaks to me.
His smile deepens, and damn it, he definitely noticed. God, I hope he's not a mindreader, because if he knew the way he's popped into my head every night for the last two weeks, the way I've had to take care of myself because of the fantasies I'm having, I'd have to move to Timbuktu. But no, it's okay, he's not looking at me like the too-horny girl from next door who can't stop thinking about him at night even though I don't even know his name. He’s smiling, but not in a wow you’re filthy or what the hell is wrong with you kind of way. Phew. Seriously.
"Do you have big plans today?" he asks.
Okay, small talk. I can do that. I nod. "Huge."
"Robbing a bank?"
"Barnes & Noble."
He nods solemnly. "Probably more expensive."
I laugh before I can stop myself. "True facts."
"Have fun committing financial crimes against your own budget."
"Sadly, I always do."
For half a second, neither of us moves, like we're both waiting for the other person to do something. We're three weeks into thisdance, and somehow we still haven't even exchanged names, just smiles, brief conversations, and then nothing.
"Well," he says, pushing off the doorframe. "Have a good one."
"You too."
He unlocks his apartment, and I head for the stairs with that familiar twist of disappointment in my stomach. It's clear our pleasant hallway moments are going absolutely nowhere, which is too bad, because there's something about him that makes me feel literally hot inside. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe my vibrator and I are having more fun than I'd ever have with him in real life.
God knows that statistically speaking, that's been my experience with men, and even though I've never been nearly this attracted to someone before, it doesn't mean my body would cooperate in real life. Oh, big, body-rocking, man-induced orgasms of my extra spicy book collection, where are you?
My Jeep is parked in my assigned spot, and I throw my bag onto the passenger seat before starting the engine. I pull out of the lot and onto the side street that leads to the main road, already thinking about coffee and shelves and the quiet bliss of ignoring my phone for a few hours. I reach for my seat belt, which I absolutely should have done before I started driving, but I’m going ten miles an hour, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.
No sooner do I think this than the dark Porsche 911 GT3 in front of me stops. Not slows down. Stops. My foot slams on the brake, but it’s too late. The front of my Jeep kisses the back of his bumper with a sickening crunch that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor. Fuck. Seriously, fuck my life. I sit there for one frozen second, hands shaking on the steering wheel, mentally calculating how much it costs to repair a car that probably costs more than my entire apartment building.
My mother is going to kill me. Not because of the accident. Accidents happen. She’ll say that first, very calmly, right before reminding me that she spent years drilling defensive driving into my head and apparently I retained none of it because I was too busy fumbling with my seat belt like a distracted dipshit.
The driver’s door opens and the driver steps out. Well fuck my life, again. Because seriously.Of coursehe’s gorgeous. Apparently the universe has decided today is the day I humiliate myself in front of not one but two beautiful men. Maybe I can go for the trifecta and embarrass myself with a third guy later. That’s definitely how this day is rolling out.
