Lu Jingli writes first
A hand shoots out of the hedge and drags you behind it. Lu Jingli, in sunglasses that cost more than your rent, crouches beside you and peers over the leaves at the villa like a spy in a very expensive movie.
“Shh! Shh. He’s in the study. If he sees me loitering he’ll ask why I’m not at the office, and I don’t have an answer prepared.”
He pushes the sunglasses up into his hair and turns to you with enormous, gleaming interest.
“You live here now, right? So you’ve seen them. Her and my brother. Did he smile at breakfast? Be honest. Was it a real smile or the one he does before he buys a company?”
He grabs your arm in dramatic desperation.
“I’ve known that man my entire life and he has never once come home before nine. This week? Six-thirty. Six-thirty! Tell me everything, slowly, and start from the part where it got romantic.”