: Chapter 7

My bedroom door slams open with a bang, the sound ricocheting off my vaulted ceiling like a gunshot. A purple throw pillow from my bed and my worn copy of Pride and Prejudice hit the floor with soft thuds thanks to a frightened elbow spasm upon the violent entry, and I clutch my chest to slow my breathing as Avery barges straight toward me, her six-inch, pointy-toed black heels clacking on the white marble of our flooring.

“Holy hell, Avery!” I gasp. “You scared the shit out of me.”

My phone sits beside me on the bed, Dream Code typed in and ready. Thank everything, it wasn’t the thing I sent plummeting toward the floor. I think I’d actually expire if I got to nine o’clock and wasn’t able to log on to see if Beau shows up because I broke my damn phone.

“Is that… Are you wearing sweatpants? And…a shawl?” Her face, covered by a full beat of beautiful makeup, twists in disgust. “By God, June, it’s not even ten.”

In contrast to my gremlin attire, she looks stunning in a body-hugging, cut-out-sporting black-and-gold dress that barely covers her nipples. It’s designer, I’m sure, but to be totally honest, I don’t know which one. I don’t keep up with the trending items nearly as closely as she does.

“I know.” A hearty sigh escapes my lungs. “But I didn’t sleep well last night. Actually, I don’t feel like I’ve slept well in a week or two. I’m exhausted.”

It’s not a lie per se. But it’s not really the truth either. I could fly to China with just the flap of my arms with the adrenaline I have running through my body right now, despite not getting good shut-eye in ages.

I guess the possibility of clandestine meetings with the motherfreaking man of your dreams will do that to you.

Avery pouts. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I have that Tradelopan the hot doctor who works at the sleep clinic gave me.”

“Ha,” I chuff. “Thanks, but no thanks. Taking rando medications from even more rando men isn’t really my jive.”

“Yeah, but if you would, then you wouldn’t be tired, and I wouldn’t have to deal with a lame-o friend bailing on TauTau with me.”

TauTau is one of the newest nightclubs to hit the Miami party scene. And it’s one of those exclusive clubs that you need to know someone to get in—aka, exactly Avery Banks’s jam.

“You know…” I eye her knowingly and wrap the Prada wool-and-cashmere shawl my dad sent me three years ago for a birthday present—he was too busy entertaining Lola on one of his yachts in Monaco to give it in person—tighter around my shoulders. “Something tells me you’ll recover by finding twenty other friends to fill my void.”

“Well, duh.” She rolls her eyes and puts a hand to her slim hip. “Like I’d wallow by myself? Puh-lease.”

I laugh at her dramatics and brutal honesty. “I’m sorry. Truly. But you know the comfort of my bed is my true habitat anyway. Let me be content in my warm little nest.”

“Whatever, loser. Don’t wait up for me.”

I snort. “Oh, trust me, honey. I won’t.”

“Ta-ta!” she says with a final blown kiss, walking out my door and slamming it behind her. I listen intently for reactionary movement on the other side of the wall—a wall I just figured out two nights ago butts up to Beau’s bedroom. Not just his apartment—his freaking headboard, people!

Now that the coast is clear, I slide farther under my covers, grab my phone, and find the one and only chat I started in Midnight—Dream code 62814.

ElizaBeth has entered the chat appears on the screen when I open it up, announcing my arrival to…no one because I’m the only one in here. The name is cheesy—I know it is—but it’s the absolute best I could come up with while I was sitting here earlier, paging through Pride and Prejudice. It’s, hands down, my favorite book in the world and one I’ve read a hundred times. The biggest draw that always brings me back to its pages is Elizabeth Bennet. She’s fearless and outspoken in ways I could only wish to be.

Mind you, the other username options were DownComforterForLife and KillMeNow, so really, I think we can all agree I settled on the best one.

When no one enters the chat a minute later, I start to self-combust. I thrash out of my shawl to reveal my plain white tank top as sweat drips down my back, and I throw my hair into a sloppy ponytail. Frantically, I swipe down on the upper right-hand corner of my phone to look at the time and see it’s 8:59 p.m. Clearly, I’m a little early.

Freaking relax, Juniperrr.

I take a deep breath, settle into my green velvet headboard, and chew on the skin of my knuckle. I do okay for a little bit, but when the clock strikes 9:01 p.m., and then 9:05 p.m., I silently wonder if I turned myself into a ball of nerves for no reason at all.

What if he didn’t even see the freaking note before he left the office? Or even worse, saw it and very sagely chose to ignore it?

I don’t know why I thought this whole cloak-and-dagger thing was a good idea. I mean, I could have—

ThunderStruck has entered the chat, the notification pings, rolling a vibration through my thighs. My heart jumps into my throat at the sight, and I scoop up my phone so quickly it bobbles in my hands before I finally snag it steady. Holy shit.

I can’t believe he picked that freaking AC/DC song he spent the entire summer before his senior year of high school playing on his electric guitar. It’s a dropkick to my past obsession with that cute little rocker phase he went through, and my vagina convulses.

ThunderStruck: Hello?

Shaking fingers to the screen, I type out a response.

ElizaBeth: Hi.

My God, could I be any more blandly lacking in character? So ho-hum? So boring?

I am so nervous that nausea triggers a tingle in my throat. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea or why I thought I’d be able to handle it.

I finally have Beau, the boy I’ve loved for what feels like fifty lifetimes, all to myself in an anonymous chat, and words have tunneled through the freaking wall like Andy Dufresne to escape me.

ThunderStruck: Who is this?

I ponder all the facetious answers I could give if I weren’t so cowardly. The woman of your dreams. Your future wife. Your wildest fantasy. The future mother of your brown-eyed babies.

Ha. Ha. Ha. My chest feels tight in a way I don’t think it’s supposed to at twenty-three. And I have no family history of heart disease or defects, so I’m guessing I need to calm down.

Just breathe, June. Keep it simple.

ElizaBeth: I can’t tell you that.

The sounds of footsteps come from the other side of my wall—from Beau’s condo—and my ears confirm that he’s literally in his bedroom. Right now. While he’s talking to me.

More footsteps move around his room, and instinct makes me hold my breath. Boom, boom, boom. My heart pounds in my ears, but when a new message pops onto the screen, all the air leaves my lungs in a shaky whoosh as I read it.

ThunderStruck: Why not?

Why? Right. Whyyyy can’t I tell him who I am, other than that being the literal scariest thing I’ve ever heard of? I shake my hands in the air and turn from side to side as though a reason is going to pop up on a magical holographic screen in the middle of my bedroom.

Maybe I should ask my dad for one of those for his next emotional buy-off gift? I mean, maybe we can work together to make my complete lack of familial fulfillment worthwhile for once.

ThunderStruck: Hello?

Right. Shit. There’s a very real, very sexy human on the other side of my freaking bedroom wall waiting for answers. I’ve got to get myself together here.

Just type the first thing you think of and send it, I coach before silently laughing sardonically to myself. Oh yeah. That’s bound to go well.

But as the seconds tick by along with the painful realization that he might disappear if I don’t answer him, I quickly type out the most realistic answer I can think of.

ElizaBeth: Because I need to stay anonymous.

ThunderStruck: And why do you need to stay anonymous?

ElizaBeth: I overheard something at the office that I think you should know about.

ThunderStruck: ?

ElizaBeth: There’s a cock sniffing around your henhouse.

ThunderStruck: Excuse me?

My face flames with embarrassment when I realize how ridiculous what I sent sounds. Cock in the henhouse? Really, June? I knew being spontaneous was going to get out of control at some point. I need to just be blunt.

ElizaBeth: Someone is sniffing around your Midnight campaign.

ThunderStruck: Oh, really? Let me guess…that someone’s name starts with an S and rhymes with Beth.

ElizaBeth: Bingo.

ThunderStruck: He make any progress with the sniffing around?

ElizaBeth: Not from what I overheard, but he’s trying. Hard.

ThunderStruck: And what did you overhear?

ElizaBeth: I don’t think I should get into that.

ThunderStruck: Sounds exactly like what someone who just wants to stir up drama would say. In fact, maybe you are Beth with an S trying to set me up for self-sabotage by not trusting my team when I should. If this were really happening, why wouldn’t they be telling me about it?

Okay, that’s…insane but plausible. Maybe I’m going to have to give a little more information than I thought.

ElizaBeth: Seth cornered Laura in the conference room and tried to flirt his way into a coalition. Her force field is strong. She refused. Later, I saw him in Jay’s office, shooting the shit and pretending to practice his golf swing. Or maybe he was practicing since he absolutely flubbed the company tournament last year, I don’t know. But he was swinging and they were laughing and he looked particularly smarmy the whole time.

A minute passes by before he responds. And I hold my breath the entire time. I even note footsteps moving farther away on the other side of the wall. They retreat so far that eventually, I don’t hear them at all.

Shit. Is he going to leave the chat? Is he going to tell me fuck off? Is he—

ThunderStruck: All right, I believe you’re legit now, based on your knowledge of how shitty Seth golfs. And I believe you’re not him, because there’s no way he’d ever admit that himself, even if it was to take me down.

Phew.

ElizaBeth: See? I know things.

ThunderStruck: What else do you know?

ElizaBeth: Well…nothing, actually. But I’ll keep an eye out.

ThunderStruck: And who did you say you were again?

ElizaBeth: I didn’t.

ThunderStruck: Maybe you should change that…

ElizaBeth: Uh-uh. I’ve never heard a story of a whistleblower who didn’t disappear. Mysterious car accident. Building explosion. High-speed boat chase during a hurricane. I’m not risking it.

ThunderStruck: Haha. You’re not dealing with nuclear codes. You’re dealing with ad marketing campaigns. Surely there’s no risk to your life with this.

ElizaBeth: You never know. Money and power are involved. Some people get desperate.

ThunderStruck: But if you told me who you were, then I could protect you…

Beau Banks protecting me? I picture him in a cute, regal uniform with a sword at his side and a cartoonishly big smile. Other people would look ridiculous, but he still looks good. Too good.

So good I consider stringing him along a little longer just so I can pretend.

“Snap out of it,” I mutter to myself. “Now isn’t the time to think with your tits. This is his career.”

I shake my head and type out another message—one I can be morally proud of.

ElizaBeth: I’m good. Thanks.

ThunderStruck: So, that’s it?

ElizaBeth: That’s it. Goodnight, Beau.

ThunderStruck: Goodnight, Mystery Whistleblower. Stay away from cars, buildings, and boats, okay?

Is he…is he flirting? I swipe out of Midnight and burrow myself under my covers, my whole body shaking.

Maybe thinking with my tits isn’t such a bad thing?