Page 2 of Only Lovers in the Building

The Icon, a classic Art Deco building on Washington Avenue, was home for the summer. Old but new: Lily imagined the bones

were stripped bare at some point, polished, lacquered, and covered in gold leaf. She walked through archway after archway,

in the golden light of so many chandeliers, rolling her carry-on case over the ivory tile with onyx inlay, thinking My God... this is perfect . If she was going to do this—escape reality, bake in the sun, drink unreservedly, waste her days, ruin her nights, and generally

behave irresponsibly—the setting mattered. She’d do it in style.

However, retreating to paradise wasn’t without its complications. It was a logistical nightmare. Her Airbnb wouldn’t be ready

for a while, and the property manager’s laissez-faire attitude grated her nerves. “Immediate occupation allows for twenty-four

hours’ notice,” he explained. “It’s in the fine print.”

When you wanted a thing badly enough, even corporate lawyers quickly scrolled to the bottom of the contract, tapped the big

fat red button marked Accept , and assumed all conditions and consequences.

To make up for the inconvenience, he offered her a voucher for a complimentary glass of rosé.

That was how Lily found her self alone at the rooftop bar overlooking Miami Beach, e-reader open to The Sweetest Lie , a spicy romance set in Malibu, waiting to be served.

She didn’t even like rosé, but she needed something to take the edge off.

The people around her exuded coolness, while she sat with her luggage

piled at her side, huffing and puffing, ready to blow her top.

She’d been on the run since two in the afternoon. Fueled by adrenaline, there’d been no stopping her. No time to pause, reflect

or second-guess the string of rash decisions that had landed her here. To sit still, even at a bar, was to run the risk of

succumbing to doubt. You couldn’t just run away from your life, could you? Who would water her Monstera? She arrived at one

conclusion: this was a big fat costly mistake.

What was she even doing here? Lily felt completely out of place at the trendy bar. She couldn’t even catch the bartender’s

attention. He had his back to her the whole time, busy with worthier patrons. She watched as he rattled a shaker, poured the

mix into a chilled glass, garnished it with a lemon twist, and offered the cocktail to a lucky woman, who rewarded him with

a smile.

He answered to Ben, Benny, Bro, or Benito:

“Yo, Ben!”

“Yeah?”

“Bro!”

“What’s up?”

“Hey, Benny!”

“Hey, man! Where’ve you been?”

“Benito. Two vodka tonics for the high top.”

“You got it.”

He was good at his job. He doted on the few who managed to get his attention.

He laughed at jokes, got the indecisive to make up their minds, and handed napkins to the ladies who spilled their drinks.

He opened tabs, swiped credit cards, and collected tips.

Lily was forever in awe of happy workers.

A job was a job, as far as she was concerned.

You showed up, toiled away for eight hours or more, and went home exhausted and spent.

There was no joy in it. No pleasure. All it caused was stress, which quitting, she’d learned today, didn’t do much to alleviate.

That was the fate of all those born into late-stage capitalism.

A guy slid onto the stool next to hers. Eyeing her e-reader, he spoke over the music. “What am I interrupting here? Sad-girl

solo date?”

French, she could tell, from the accent and attitude. He could take that somewhere else. Today was not the day.

“Excuse me?” she snapped.

“You’ve got your book,” he observed. “All you’re missing is a glass of chardonnay.”

A fuse ignited in Lily’s gut. But when she met his water-blue eyes, it instantly died out. He meant no harm. Besides, he wasn’t

too far from the truth. She felt no shame. Solo dates were a pillar of the self-care doctrine.

“Tonight’s sad drink of choice is a complimentary glass of rosé,” she said. “But I can’t get the bartender’s attention.”

He let out a tortured sound. “You’re too pretty to be so tragic.”

“Thanks. Sort of.”

He was pretty, too, with slick blond hair and a deep tan that made his blue eyes pop.

“Cheer up,” he said. “If the guy I’m here to meet doesn’t show, I’ll join you. This is our third attempt at a first date.”

Lily gasped, any residual resentment gone. There ought to be a three-strike rule in the contact sport known as dating.

“He’s a lawyer,” her barmate explained. “Justice for all requires human sacrifice.”

“I’m a lawyer,” she said. “I can attest that’s true.”

He looked her over. She returned the favor, only she had to crane her neck to do so properly.

In a pair of linen pants and a button-down shirt with most buttons left undone, he had obviously put a lot of effort into looking effortless, and it paid off handsomely.

He was too good-looking to be ghosted, but it was a spooky world.

Next to him, Lily felt drab. She’d fled a corporate retreat, but she was still in corporate uniform. In a cashmere knit, pleated

trousers, and sling-back pumps, she was as prim and proper as Miami allowed. Her reflection in the smoky mirror behind the

bar confirmed this. She’d turned thirty last month, and every birthday card assured her that she was fun and fabulous. Well,

not tonight. Her wide eyes stared back at her with a war-weary expression. The weight she’d lost to better fit in her bathing

suit at the retreat had hollowed her cheeks and collarbones. Her copper-brown complexion was as dull as an old penny. Her

hair, ever so curly in Miami’s record-breaking humidity, was gathered on top of her head, giving her the air of a deranged

pineapple. Coppery, wiry, and overdressed, it was a wonder they hadn’t escorted her thirty-year-old self off the premises.

“I’m Noah,” he said, finally.

“Lily.”

“What’s with the luggage, Lily? Are you on the run?”

“In a way. I’ll be hiding out here a bit.”

“Moving in?”

“For the summer,” she replied. No one in their right mind would stay in Miami past Labor Day. “I quit my job.”

He nodded approvingly. “Good for you.”

It was good for her. She shouldn’t doubt it, even if it was reckless and foolish and prohibitively expensive. None of that mattered.

She’d earned this.

Noah’s phone lit up in his hand. He glanced at the screen. “Bet he’s calling to cancel.” He let the call die out.

“Give him the benefit of the doubt,” she said. “I’m sure he’d rather be with you than working on a brief. It’s early. Still

time to turn things around.”

“Is that how it works out in books?” Noah asked, skeptical.

“In real life, too.”

A lie, but Noah couldn’t handle the truth. Lily was willing to bet anything that his supposedly overworked lawyer had swiped

a picture-perfect profile from LinkedIn and was using it as bait. Classic catfish. The dating game was brutal. People had

twisted and selfish motives, Lily chief among them. She broke Darren’s heart all those years ago when she was too young or

too foolish to value their relationship. “We’re so good together,” he’d pleaded. “This is true love. We want all the same

things.” That couldn’t be further from the truth. She’d only wanted to be free. At thirty, she no longer believed in true

love—but a romance novel delivered every time.

“I should call him back,” Noah said with a little frown.

“I think so.”

“Well, welcome to the building, Lily. I’m on the tenth floor, but I live at the pool.” Noah sealed their new friendship with

a double air kiss. Before slipping away, he whispered, “The hot bartender will get to you eventually. By the way, he’s straight...

and single. That’s a rare combination here.”

Stung, she replied, “Why should I care?”

Hot or not, she’d ruled out bartenders, bouncers, DJs, and dancers a long time ago. There came a time for every girl to grow

up, sober up, shake the glitter out of her hair, and kiss the party boys goodbye. They called it growing pains for a reason.

Now that she was old enough to appreciate the Darrens of the world—loyal, steadfast, a little boring, but so what?—she would

limit her search to the men who fell neatly onto that pile.

Noah looked at her pointedly, a look so sharp it cut through her bullshit like butter. “Good luck,” he mouthed and walked

away, phone pinned to his ear. Lily knew instinctively that if she didn’t panic and bolt, aborting her impromptu fun-filled

summer, if she stuck it through, she and Noah from the tenth floor would be the best of friends.

But first, that drink.

The sun was setting over Miami Beach, and the rooftop deck had filled up. What was she doing, brandishing a coupon as if she

were at the checkout line of a big box store? No wonder she wasn’t getting any service. Free wasn’t free . She had to entice the hot bartender with a tip.

Lily rummaged in her quilted leather bag for her silver money clip. As she rifled through the wad of twenties in search of

a ten, she had the odd feeling of being watched. She glanced up, and there he was. She’d spent so long trying to get the man’s

attention, and now that she had it, it burned. His eyes were midnight black, but his gaze flashed blue then red then gold,

catching the colors of the neon lights strung over the bar. For a fraction of a second, her world went silent—no music, no

chatter, no distant sounds of traffic. Even the noise in her head quieted down, which was unheard of. He leaned close to speak

to her, setting her pulse at an erratic pace.

“Ma’am,” he said.

Was that necessary? They had to be about the same age.

He pointed over his shoulder. “The gentleman over there would like to buy you a drink.”

Gentleman! National Geographic had declared that species extinct. Besides, the bar was too crowded to spot anyone who might fit the bill. “Who? Where?”

Lily asked. She scanned for a top hat and coattails.

Hot Bartender Benny dropped his elbows onto the glass counter, exposing the black ink tattoos of knotted vines, curling around