The moment she feels the phone vibrate in her pocket, Lily is calculating time zones.

Seven hours. Kuala Lampur is seven hours ahead of London. Eight, nine…four a.m. Dad can't possibly be ringing at four a.m. Unless… No. If the wire transfer hadn't gone through, he wouldn't know yet. Too early. Too bloody early. Four sodding a.m. Which means it's likely Petunia, ringing to rage once more, and Lily can't—won't—pick up to be run roughshod over again. God. As if she were the one—

"—not putting goats in my restaurant."

"Not in your restaurant. Above your restaurant. Goat yoga is incredibly—"

A glass of lukewarm white wine is pressed into Lily's hand. She lifts it immediately, downing it entirely, grimacing as she swallows. The painful pulsing house music reverberating throughout the trendy SoHo gallery rings in her ears. Somehow, her phone is now out of her pocket. It vibrates again.

Kingsley quits bickering with his boyfriend only long enough to lift a dark brow at her bare glass, only just procured from the shoddy, makeshift bar.

"Thirsty?" he asks.

Lily licks her still parched lips. She sets the empty glass on the buffet. "Goat yoga?"

"Sophie Turner's done it," Ollie defends, as if that ought to settle it. "Any decent artists' retreat offers—"

"No," Kingsley repeats.

"Artists' retreat?" Rrr-rr. A third vibration. But not steady. Sporadic. So not a call. Texts. Would Petunia text? "What happened to the bourbon and boxing club?"

She doesn't know why she asks. Lily's attention is fractured—has been long before the vibrations, if she's being honest. She never should have let King convince her to come tonight. She loves a salty snoop on a lost client's event as much as the next smug professional—and lord knows frivolous, frothy Joanna Leas had led both her and King on a merry chase for weeks before ultimately "going in a different direction" for her silly product launch—but Lily can't even muster a proper strop about it. Not now. Not tonight. She's too frazzled, too raw. Overstressed and underserved. The whole day…god. Such a shite day. And that last call from Petunia…She just wants to be home, curled up on her sofa, entombed beneath a big, fluffy blanket.

Bra off, Bake-Off on, chain-eating cold egg rolls.

Scrolling her e-mail, maybe.

"It was suggested to me," Ollie answers, pulling Lily from her sulk, "that perhaps pissed patrons and pugilism are not the melodic business melding I had first envisioned. Of course"—his eyes dart quickly to his left, to Kingsley, and his ripe Scottish burr turns cajoling—"there'd be no goats or lawsuits to worry over if a nearby establishment—say, a restaurant—would just agree to take over the space—"

"Why are you holding that?" Kingsley interrupts.

He's looking at her. At the phone.

Lily means to slip it away. Really, she does. Her hand just isn't listening.

"No reason." Her fingers clench. Her voice dips. "Hey, remember that time your posh prat boyfriend bought you a building without asking? Weren't we talking about that?"

"It was not—" Ollie begins.

King's eyes narrow.

Lily's phone gives a fourth, fatal vibrate.

Four. Four texts. What burgeoning apocalypse must four separate text messages herald? She needs to check. Maybe it is Dad. Maybe—

Riled Scottish fingers pluck the phone straight from her hand.

"—a building," Ollie finishes, glaring. "It was the upper floor of a building. His building. An annex, practically! A steal—"

"Yes, fine, an annex." Lily lunges. "Give—"

"Lily." Kingsley's expression has gone dark. "If that's your father or sister..."

"It's—"

"No. Absolutely not." King's voice is a lash, crisp and sharp. "Stop cleaning up their messes, Lily. Let them sort their own irresponsibility for once. You've done enough. More than enough. You'd never stand this from anyone else—"

"That's not—"

"—don't deserve—"

"Who's James?" Ollie asks, squinting at the screen.

Lily's stomach drops. Her entire body seems to seize.

James.

King is faster than she is. Before she can even think to make the attempt, he's already filched the phone from his boyfriend's grasping fingers. He swiftly jabs in Lily's passcode.

"Kingsley," she warns, advancing.

Dark eyes skim the screen.

"Ah." His brows are up. He coughs, then holds the phone out to her. "Incidentally," he says, "Mary is going to be livid she stayed home tonight."

Lily snatches the device back like a mother parted from her child, coddling it to her chest before spinning on her heels to huddle over the screen, as if King hasn't already pilfered the state secrets within. With her stomach still flipping, she opens the messages.

hi. so, funny thing…

Hell.

James is here?

He's—

"Who is James?" Ollie asks again.

"Lily's new lover."

"He is not—" Lily shoots a glare over her shoulder. She huffs, shakes her head. You're here? she types, then hits send.

"What? New lover? Since when?" Ollie grumbles his exclusion into a large swig of amber liquid. His pout instantly turns into a grimace. "Fucking hell, this is swill. Why are we here again?"

"Providing Lily with a distraction," King replies. His lips quirk. "Seems the universe is colluding with us."

"Seems," she scoffs, as her phone vibrates again. By the bar, it says. Then: coming to you. She stretches onto her toes, searching around the bar, but can't spot him. Her chest compresses. Her insides riot. But in a good way. For the first time all day, something good. Bloody hell, he's not supposed to be something so good. "I am not sleeping with James Potter—"

"Wait—James Potter? The photographer James Potter?"

Lily turns, blinks. "You know him?"

Ollie grabs her arm. "Lily. You have to sleep with him. My artists' retreat! James Potter! He'd be perfect—"

"Oh, for—who do I look like, Julia Roberts?" She shakes off Ollie's eager hold. "I'm not sleeping with anyone for your stupid fake business, Ollie."

"It's not fake. It's about feeding the creative soul—"

"Yes, Lily," King drawls. "Sleep with him to feed the creative soul."

"Hilarious." Lily can feel her skin flushing. "So hilarious—"

"What's hilarious?" a voice asks behind her.

A familiar voice.

James.

Lily turns, taut body prickling with awareness. The flared skirt of her patterned dress sweeps about her knees. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she is endlessly grateful she hadn't been in a foul enough mood earlier not to dress decently.

"Hi," she says, somewhat breathlessly.

James Potter's smile should be outlawed in several countries. It should be banned on the premises, in the universe, for potentially hazardous combustions. She's still combating its debilitating effects when he gives a little laugh, then easily leans in to wrap her in a quick hug.

Fucking hell. Forget the big, fluffy blanket. This is what Lily wants to be entombed in. Him. Eternally.

Her fingers sink into his biceps as he busses her cheek.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"A friend was coming, wanted company." He pulls away, Pretty Hazels sparkling. "Why are you here? Did you plan this?"

"Did I—" Lily's gaze sweeps the room—the garish decorations, the poorly spaced display tables, the middle-aged DJ wearing sunglasses indoors and fiddling with his MacBook. "Bite your tongue. How dare you."

James laughs again. She can feel the vibrations of it pulsing beneath her fingertips. Can do, because she still hasn't let go of his arms.

Her hands drop hastily, clumsily, fisting at her sides.

Behind her, someone clears their throat.

She jolts. "Right. Shit. Sorry. This is—this is my mate Kingsley. He's doing the catering for your dad's party, actually. King, this is James. And this is Kingsley's boyfriend—"

"Shit." James has dropped Kingsley's hand. He's blinking at Ollie. "You're Ollie Ogden."

Ollie startles, then preens. "Aye?"

"I was at that World Cup match," James says quickly, stepping forward. "Against Germany. The one—"

"Jenstin and his fucking foul."

"—couldn't even believe—between that and the offsides. Bloody outrage—"

As the two begin to relive their mutual horror in fraught, dramatic tones, Lily watches with silent disarm. Sometimes she forgets that before he was Kingsley's posh prat boyfriend, buying buildings and stanning goats, Ollie was also a posh prat football prodigy.

Quietly, Kingsley sidles up beside her.

"Good news, Julia," he whispers. "Seems you haven't got to sleep with him after all."

"Thanks," she mutters, but wants to laugh, absurdly, for the first time all day. Wants to smile. Talk. Tease. Wants to…to bask in something that shouldn't be anything—she's tried—but somehow is something and on the worst, worst of days, has suddenly appeared like manna from the heavens, at this awful event, and she's not religious, not even a little, but this feels…this feels…

She's delirious. Clearly, very clearly delirious.

Her day. Such a shit day. But…

Well. It looks like her evening had just gotten interesting.