Kylie Scott is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling, Audie Award-winning author. She has sold over two million books and was voted Australian Romance Writer of the Year four times by the Australian Romance Readers Association. Her books have been translated into fourteen different languages and she is based in Queensland, Australia.

Also by Kylie Scott

THE LAST DAYS OF LILAH GOODLUCK
END OF STORY

For a full list of books by Kylie Scott,
please visit kyliescott.com.

PIATKUS

First published in the US in 2024 by Graydon House,

An imprint of Harlequin Enterprises ULC.

Published in Great Britain in 2024 by Piatkus

Copyright © 2024 by Kylie Scott

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-43688-3

Piatkus

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Praise for the novels of Kylie Scott

1

Friday

Good Witch Willow is unhappy at me for keeping her waiting. This is made obvious by the way she glares up at me through her wire-rim glasses while tugging on one of the crystal pendants around her neck. Like it is going to take help from beyond to stop her from slapping me silly or something.

“Lilah,” says my best friend with much patience, “why are you like this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just ask her a question already.”

Rebecca (not Becca or Becky) does have a point. It’s not like I haven’t known this moment was coming for weeks now. She wanted to do something fun for her birthday and every other entertainer had already been booked. A lot of birthday parties in March, apparently. Guess everyone has sex in the summertime.

The private room at the back of the bespoke cocktail bar off Santa Monica Boulevard is close to capacity and a song by Hozier plays over the speakers. We stand at one of the tall round bar tables with the remains of a charcuterie board and a flickering tea light in a vintage jar. The walls are painted a bright turquoise, but the vibe is relaxed. It should be a great night. I want it to be for my friend’s sake. But I am anxious and distracted and not in the mood at all, dammit.

“I honestly don’t have one,” I say. “I’m sorry. I told you this wasn’t my thing.”

Rebecca groans and downs more than a mouthful of her whiskey sour. It’s her party, she can self-medicate if she wants to—and apparently, she does.

“What do people normally ask?”

Good Witch Willow is older with white skin and long gray hair in a braid. She’s exactly what I imagined a witch would look like when I was a child. A dramatic long lace dress and plenty of chunky jewelry. Instead of answering me, she glances at her smartwatch and announces, “That’s your two hours up. I’m out of here.”

Rebecca gives me a look.

Good Witch Willow wastes no time, packing her tarot cards, a travel-size crystal ball, and a collection of brightly colored crystals back into her large velvet tote.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Rebecca for the second time. “Though your work bestie hogging her for over forty minutes to ask about his fantasy football team didn’t help. And your neighbor that needed that emergency love potion. I wonder if she’ll actually manage to find Keanu Reeves and persuade him to drink it.”

Rebecca just raises her brows.

“You have to give it to her, it’s a beautiful dream,” I say. “But my point is you, my friend, are popular. There are a lot of people here. The chance of Good Witch Willow getting around to everyone was always going to be low.”

“Just admit you’re all up in your feelings about your boyfriend again.”

“I am worried about Josh.” I take a sip from my gimlet. “He said the headache was really bad, that it was messing with his vision.”

“That actually doesn’t sound good,” she reluctantly agrees.

“Yeah. I really think he needs to see a doctor, but you know what dudes are like.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve pretty much made it my life mission to not know what dudes are like.” She takes another sip of her drink. “You’re going to rush home to play nurse instead of going dancing with me, aren’t you?”

“Rebecca, can you predict the future?” I fake gasp. “And you never told me… That hurts. Wait. Did you know that was going to hurt?”

She gives me an amused smile and raises the remains of her drink in a toast. We’ve been best friends since sharing a dorm room in college about a decade ago. She’s petite with dark hair and olive skin. I, on the other hand, am more of a robust blonde. They didn’t spare the tits and ass when they made me.

“Go on. Abandon me, then,” she says. “But you owe me.”

“How about I take you out to dinner next week? To that Japanese place you love?”

“No complaining when I eat all the salmon sashimi.”

“Agreed. Happy almost birthday. Talk to you tomorrow.” I set my mostly empty gimlet on the bar and give her a hug. “Don’t go home with Priya. You know you’ll only regret it. Again.”

“But she’s brilliant and beautiful and emotionally unavailable. She’s exactly my type.”

“Oh my God. It’s like you just proved my point.”

“Get out of here, loser.”

I smack a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Rebecca. Make good choices.”

Despite the late hour, there are still plenty of people around. The road is glossy black from a recent storm, and puddles on the sidewalk reflect the lights from the bars and restaurants. I huddle down into my cardigan against the cold night air. There’s a small convenience store open on the other side. Just perfect for picking up Tylenol since I have no idea how much we have at home, and Josh might need more. Better safe than sorry.

I join the only other person waiting at the corner to cross, and she just so happens to be Good Witch Willow. Her stereotypical pointed boot taps impatiently as she rummages through her colorful velvet tote in search of something. Being a witch must be interesting. Not that I believe in all that. Divination and spirits and so on never seemed particularly probable to me. My father is an atheist and taught us to question everything and always demand proof. I’m also a librarian, and librarians like facts. An established truth is a beautiful thing. They help to prop up society and keep us warm at night. Or they used to.

The walk light flashes, and Willow’s gray braid swings as she steps off the curb. I follow with my mind wandering, thinking about what else Josh might need and whether I should buy him some soda. But out of the corner of my eye, I see it—a sleek vehicle that doesn’t stop like the others. It doesn’t even slow down. It is, in fact, speeding straight toward us with headlights dazzlingly bright.

There’s no time to think. I grab the older woman from behind as I propel us both back toward the curb and tumble to the ground. Had she been any bigger, it might not have worked. But my years of infrequent gym attendance finally come in handy. Wheels screech and the horn blares as the sports car roars past us. It’s so damn close I can feel the rush of air in its wake.

But we don’t get hit.

Holy shit. My heart is hammering. Willow’s elbow digs into my stomach as she rolls off me onto the pavement. Whatever. I am just honestly amazed to still be amongst the living.

“Asshole!” Good Witch Willow hollers at the fading taillights.

The cool damp ground is hard beneath me, but overhead a star twinkles in a gap between the clouds. Parts of me hurt. My hand is bloody and scraped, and my hip is bruised. There’s also a tear in the tiered skirt of my new pale blue minidress, not to mention numerous stains from the wet and dirty sidewalk. Odds are also good that I just flashed my panties at the entire street.

Willow raises a brow at me. “Oh, it’s you.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply dryly.

A young man standing nearby caught the whole thing on his cell. And is still filming. A jogger stops and offers Willow his hand. He gently pulls her to her feet before doing the same for me. Which is nice of him.

Willow brushes herself off, gathering the items that fell from her tote. Breath mints, hand sanitizer, and such. “I didn’t see that car coming at all.”

Were I not still catching my breath, I would definitely make a smart-ass comment about her supposed prognostication abilities. Or at least give it serious consideration. But my hip is aching and my hand stings. I wince as I pick a piece of gravel out of one of my deeper scratches. What a mess.

“You’re the one who wanted to know what people ask me, aren’t you?” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and narrows her gaze on me. Like she’s attempting to stare into my soul or something.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “Falling on you made for a soft landing.”

“Great.”

“There’s a lot that people would like to know,” she continues. “But the most popular questions tend to revolve around love. Are they cheating on me? Will they come back to me? Who’s my soulmate? Things like that.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Then they tend to move on to more mundane issues, like if they’re going to get that promotion, or are they on the right career track? Then you’ve got the ones who think they’re funny. They like to ask me for this week’s lotto numbers.”

I snort. “That is kind of funny.”

“Not when you’re hearing it for the hundredth time, it isn’t. And then there are the ones who want to know when they’re going to die.” She cocks her head and sighs. “That car would have hit me if you hadn’t been there. Given the speed it was going, I doubt it would have ended well for me.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep my mouth shut.

“It would seem you’re owed something.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Be quiet and listen.” Willow draws herself up to her full height, and her gaze turns hazy. As if she’s staring into the middle distance. Then, in a sonorous tone, she announces, “He is cheating on you. But I think you already know that deep down. The name of your soulmate is Alistair George Arthur Lennox. What a mouthful.”

My smile is bemused. “Wait a minute. You don’t mean—”

“You will be passed over for the promotion. They really don’t appreciate you. I have no idea why you’ve stayed there so long.”

“It’s complicated. You’re actually predicting all of this, aren’t you?”

“Five, eight, twelve, twenty-four, thirty-nine, and forty-three. And I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you will die next Sunday.”

“What?” I shake my head. She cannot be saying what I think she is saying. Because there is not a chance in hell that this is real. “No. That’s not possible.”

“You might want to say goodbye to your loved ones and get your affairs in order.”

My laughter is brittle with an edge of disbelief. “Are you serious? I mean, you’re joking, right?”

Willow blinks several times and blows out a breath. Like she’s coming back to herself or returning to her version of reality or whatever. Maybe she hit her head on the pavement. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Though she believed in all the supernatural stuff to begin with. Which just goes to validate my belief that people are wild.

“Right,” she says. “Good night.”

“Did you mean right as in you were joking?”

But without another word, she heads off into the night, leaving me standing there stunned.

I ask the night at large, in a not-so-quiet voice, “What in the actual fuck?”

But no one answers. Even the dude with the cell phone has disappeared. Despite the drama and weirdness, no one so much as spares me a glance. The world keeps turning and life goes on. Insert big sigh here.

What I need is to buy the Tylenol, go home, check on Josh, down some of the previously mentioned painkillers (for my poor sore hip and hand), have a long hot shower, and then go to bed.

By the time the Uber drops me home, the lotto ticket for Saturday night’s big draw is hidden in the bottom of my cross-body bag. I think I remembered most of the numbers. I’ve always been more of a word person. But it’s not like it matters. No one even needs to know I bought the thing. Because it’s stupid. There is no way that Willow is actually psychic. Josh and I are solid. There aren’t even any suitable jobs currently available in my area. And I am not dying in nine days.

The actual definitive proof with regard to all of this, however, is the name she gave me of my supposed soulmate: Alistair George Arthur Lennox. I don’t need to look up who he is because I already know. I doubt there’s anyone on the planet who hasn’t heard of him since the paparazzi love him as much as he loathes them.

I trudge my tired self up the stairs to our second-floor apartment. All my moaning and groaning echoes up the stairwell and out into the uncaring night. The sound is neither brave nor attractive, but I don’t care. If this is how it feels to be almost hit by a car, it officially sucks.

My apartment building dates back to the fifties. Two neat lines of boxlike apartments, all opening onto the central strip of garden running through the middle. It’s a style typical of LA and the times. I walk with my keys sticking out between my fingers like my mom taught me. Just in case.

Music is playing inside. Something by the Arctic Monkeys. Josh must be feeling better. When I left, he was lying in the dark with a wet facecloth covering his eyes and talking in whispers. He doesn’t usually get migraines or headaches. Another reason to be concerned. But he insisted I go to my best friend’s party without him. And I did want to be there for Rebecca.

I unlock the door and toss my purse and the box of painkillers on the kitchen counter. Toeing off my favorite booties has never felt better. They too are sadly scuffed from the night’s drama. Hopefully they can be fixed. An antique mirror hanging on the wall confirms that my long blond hair is a bedraggled mess. So much for beach waves.

There’s no response to my call of “Babe?”

The apartment has a simple layout, with an open living/kitchen/dining space and a separate bathroom and bedroom off to the side. Not particularly large but reasonably affordable and close to work. I asked Josh to move in with me on Valentine’s Day. It was almost our six-month anniversary and the timing felt right. It still gives me a thrill to call it our apartment. I’ve never lived with someone who I was in a committed relationship with before. It is a whole new level of adulthood.

“You’re home early,” he says, stepping out of the bedroom wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. His short blond hair is in disarray, and his smile is strained. Like it won’t quite stick. “Thought you were going dancing after drinks.”

“I was worried about you. How are you feeling?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“You look better. There’s color back in your face.” I turn to show him the tear in my skirt and the graze on my hand. “You’re not going to believe what happened to me tonight. Just let me get the first aid stuff, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I’ll get it. You wait there.”

I ignore him and follow him into the bedroom, where the bed linens are askew. Like, seriously skew-whiff. The pillows are on the floor, and our blanket has been kicked to the end of the mattress. Only the white sheet remains. It’s so rumpled that it appears as if someone was bouncing on the bed or something.

“I said I’d get it,” he says with a frown. His hand is on the bathroom doorknob, but it does not turn and open the door as nature intended. Nay. It just sits there waiting.

“What’s wrong, Josh?”

His frown deepens and his gaze skips around the room. Almost as if he is avoiding eye contact. “Nothing. I just…”

“You just what? Why are you being weird?”

And then I hear it…a quiet shuffling sound coming from inside the bathroom. For a moment I almost think I imagined it. Like my mind is playing tricks on me. It has been that sort of night. But the way my boyfriend reacts leaves no room for doubt. His eyes go wide, and his mouth does the same. Though there are still no words coming out. Guess he doesn’t know what to say. Which would be a first.

“Is there someone in the bathroom?” I am quite proud of my voice. It is a little quiet but firm. “Josh?”

Now there’s panic in his eyes.

No. This cannot be happening. But the way my heart has sunk straight through the floor says otherwise. My boyfriend really is cheating on me. He hasn’t even finished unpacking, and he’s already chosen to stray. Holy shit, the witch was right.

He finally pulls himself together enough to say, “Babe, I can explain. It’s not what you think.”

“It’s that new girl from work, isn’t it? The one you said you asked to stop messaging you because it was inappropriate. But of course, that was a lie. Because you faked being sick and invited her to my home so you could bang her in my bed.” My hands start to shake, so I curl my fingers into fists. I’m not going to hit him. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it. But I will deal with this like a grown-ass woman. One who doesn’t want to be charged with assault.

“It was an accident,” he says. Followed fast by “This is just a misunderstanding.”

A loud thud comes from the bathroom. Guess his sexy-times guest disagrees.

“Babe, I swear, just let me explain. I didn’t have a clue she was coming over. Don’t even know how she got the address.” The doorknob tries to turn beneath his hand. “Stay in there. Just give us a minute, please.”

This time, there’s an angry thump against the other side of the bathroom door. Fair enough.

“This is all just a horrible mistake,” says Josh. “I mean, you’ve been working such long hours lately and—”

“Are you trying to tell me this is my fault?” I ask, incredulous. “Seriously?”

He tugs his short hair in frustration. “No. Yes. I mean… you’re so busy all the—”

“Stop.” I take a deep, cleansing, fortifying breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t want to hear it. Just pack your shit and get out of here.”

“But it’s not what you think!”

“It is exactly what I think, and we both know it,” I all but growl. “I want you out of my home and out of my life. Right now, Josh. You and I are through.”

He stares wide-eyed at me in shock. Then his shoulders finally slump in defeat. Josh has always been a bit of a golden boy. The favorite child and so on. I don’t think the idea of there being actual consequences to his behavior ever occurred to him. Life sure comes at you fast sometimes.

Finally, a woman’s voice calls out through the bathroom door, “Can I come out now?”