Page 80 of How To Plot a Payback

“Oh.” I nod and, for the second time today, mistakenly put out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Gabriel shakes (incredibly briefly), then grunts in a way that says, I don’t like you, I don’t need your approval, and I think you need to leave.

It feels safer to shift my gaze back to Lavender, so I do. She’s smiling. “Sorry. I just, well, I like to limit the number of people who know this. Gabriel has been with me for a long time. He excels at keeping himself in the shadows, and the best thing we can do is keep it that way. I didn’t want to lie—”

But already I’m enthusiastically waving her off. I feel ridiculous. Of course. “No need to explain. Of course you want to—”

“—but when you decided to be a knight in shining armor about it,” she says pointedly, “I figured it would be best to let you in. Of course, I would appreciate your discretion.”

Already, I’m nodding. “Absolutely.” I clap my hands. “Well.” I find myself shaking my head, muttering, “Stupid of me. Of course you have protection. I just wanted—”

“—to make sure I got home safe and would be okay. Like a good Samaritan.” She says it subtly, all the while smiling.

“Or a good coexecutive producer,” I reply. I lift a finger. “Remember that, the next time I get into a scrape.”

Probably caused by you.

Her lips part, something dancing in her eyes as she hangs on to the door. “Sure thing, Finn. In the meantime, I’ll be waiting for that fruit basket.”

* * *

I find myself back at my flat, unclipping the leash from Miles’s collar and pulling off my shoes as the events of the last hour play through my mind.

Of her taking the twenty-minute walk over sewer grates and past sidewalk cafés instead of hopping in a private car to be taken wherever she wanted to go. Strolling through the residences of Hollywood Hills is one thing, but stepping over rubbish and passing by the neon-lit vape shops while talking bright-eyed is another.

Of her opting to make the peeling pink loft over top of the failing Lebanese bakery her home and justifying it with the words, “What’s not to love? I get knafeh for dessert and post the mail before breakfast.”

I never once saw her phone out either. When all the world gives its time and attention to the interrupting ding, she just walked along, eyes like a fresh baby’s, happy enough to be watching the spindly limbs of a jacaranda tree before bloom.

And there’s that one thing I can’t stop thinking about over and over as I pull a takeaway bag holding last night’s leftovers from the fridge. The hush as she put her hand on mine before she closed the door, and her whispered words: “But really, Finn. It’s important to me that Gabriel is kept a secret. Please don’t speak of him to anyone.” She paused and gave a breathy laugh. “I guess that’s three secrets between us.”

And despite my best judgment, I’d felt a pang in my chest that was totally out of line with my mind.

There is no denying it now.

I am in her club.

Her secret club.

Now I am not merely the bearer of the ridiculous news that she has alektorophobia, or that she secretly wonders what her life could be like outside the craze of Neighbors, but also this little nugget about her bodyguard. Three secrets.

Three secrets about my enemy.

My gut response in the moment was as ridiculous as I imagine the veterinarian’s receptionist and the teen boys and all the world would have if they could hear her say those same words. If they could feel her touch their hand.

A zing.

A bolt up the spine that imprints the scent of baklava forevermore to this memory. I will never be able to walk by a bakery again and not think of that moment.

I am in her inner circle.

Against my will, yes.

Without asking to be or seeking it out, yes.

Only—and I want to shake myself—I don’t hate the idea of it like I want to.

I don’t loathe (as I should) the idea that I am among the very few to share a secret with Lavender Rhodes.