The Romance Plan - Lila Monroe Page 0,15

to avoid a Sterling sighting: I text Rachel begging for coffee. I bring my own lunch. I seriously consider peeing in a bottle like a long-haul truck driver, but in the end that feels a little extreme even for the situation at hand. Instead I open the blinds a crack and peer down the hall in both directions to make sure the coast is clear before scurrying down the hall to the bathroom, peeking around corners and ducking behind doors.

I’m nearly back to my office—and already breathing a sigh of relief—when someone taps me on the shoulder. I jump about a mile in the air, and then whirl around—

And come face to face with Liam.

“I wasn’t doing anything inappropriate!” I blurt, even as my eyes dart wildly around, scanning the corridor for a potted plant to hide behind or a window to leap from. “I mean…” I clear my throat, pulling myself together. “Did you need me?”

Liam looks at me a little oddly. “I have some sales numbers I’d like to go over with you,” he says. “Come into my office for a moment?”

“I can’t, actually,” I say, relieved to have an excuse that’s actually true. “I’m about to head out to Long Island to meet with Verity.”

“Ah.” Liam nods briskly. “Good thinking. I’ve been meaning to connect with her in person, too, as a matter of fact. I’ll join you.”

“I—no!” Danger, Will Robinson. “I mean, um, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” I insist quickly. “A trip to Long Island on a Friday afternoon in August? The traffic will be terrible.”

Liam shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “That’ll give us plenty of time to talk about those figures.”

“I’m planning to listen to Taylor Swift,” I try desperately. “Like, a lot of Taylor Swift. A Taylor Swift career retrospective, starting with her earliest country release and proceeding in chronological order, including b-sides and deep cuts.”

“All right?” Liam looks a little confused. “Well, I can’t say I’m terribly familiar with her work, but I’m always open to discovering new artists.”

Seriously? Who IS this guy? “I’m leaving right this minute.” I try.

“Excellent,” he says, nodding briskly. “No time like the present, I always say. My car is right downstairs.”

And with that, he marches off toward the elevator.

Two hours in commuter traffic with the infuriating, frustrating, extremely good-looking

object of my X-rated bathtub fantasies?

“Can’t wait,” I mutter, and trudge off to grab my purse.

But as we get the trip underway, one thing becomes clear: Liam is not a Taylor Swift superfan.

“This is terrible,” he announces before we’ve even left the city, glaring at the stereo like Taylor herself might be in there, eagerly anticipating his opinion of her life’s work. “Seriously, how can you listen to this caterwauling?”

I frown. I don’t know why I’m surprised, really. Other things he’s scorned in the short time we’ve been riding together: my road trip snacks (too sugary); my traffic app (too unreliable); the A/C (too wasteful). My hair sticks to the back of my neck in the humidity. Still, I can’t help but take the bait. “What’s wrong with Taylor Swift?”

“What isn’t wrong with Taylor Swift?” Liam fires back. “Her insipid melodies. Her obsession with her own reputation. Her exhausting lyrical autopsies of whatever romantic entanglement she’s currently engrossed in. Is it all the same man? Is it a different man each time? I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Ooookay,” I say, reminding myself with some difficulty that this is the guy who holds my entire career in his annoyingly strong-looking hands. Besides, Taylor doesn’t need me defending her, she’s doing perfectly fine all on her own. “What would you like to listen to?”

“I prefer quiet, actually,” he says pointedly.

I blow a breath out. “Fine,” I say, clicking the stereo off as we merge onto the highway. Silence it is.

* * *

We ride like that for close to an hour, the dense city landscape turning to suburbs and eventually the leafy green farmland of Eastern Long Island. Finally, though, I can’t take it anymore. Who takes a vow of silence on a road trip? What are we, Tibetan monks?

“So,” I try, “you’re from California?”

Liam nods curtly. “Malibu,” he says.

“Must have been hard to grow up so far away from Harry.”

Liam shakes his head. “We weren’t close.”

“Oh.” I cast around for a follow-up. “Um, do you still have family there?”

“My mother.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Not particularly.”

I blow a noisy breath out, unable to contain my frustration. “Look,” I say, “I’m just trying to make conversation here. If you don’t want to talk