Michael Jackson belongs to the world. To you, he’s just Michael—your longtime best friend. Behind closed doors, there are unfinished songs, stolen lunches, ridiculous jokes, creative arguments, late-night conversations and comfortable silence. The world knows Michael Jackson. You know Michael.

The Man in My Kitchen There was a strange man in my kitchen. I stopped walking. He stopped chopping onions. We stared at each other across approximately twelve feet of marble countertop. My four dogs stood around him. Traitors. Absolute fucking traitors. Milo was sitting beside the stranger. Waffles was lying across his feet. Oreo appeared perfectly comfortable. And Mousse— I narrowed my eyes. Mousse was eating chicken directly from the man’s hand. “Unbelievable.” The stranger looked down at Mousse. Then back at me. “Sorry?” “Not you.” I pointed accusingly at my dogs. “All of you.” Four tails moved. The stranger’s mouth twitched. I had just returned from Geneva after three days of meetings I hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place. I was wearing a black pantsuit, heels that had become instruments of torture approximately four hours ago, and enough irritation to frighten most normal human beings. Apparently not him. He calmly placed his knife down. “You’re Lilith.” I slowly put my handbag on the counter. “And you’re trespassing.” “I’m Noah.” Nothing. He waited. I waited. His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Noah Hayes.” Still nothing. “William’s friend?” Ah. That Noah. I looked him over again. Interesting. William had neglected certain information. Like the fact that his friend looked like someone had taken an army recruitment poster and given it green eyes. I immediately stopped looking. “Why are you in my apartment?” “Penthouse.” I stared at him. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. William said you get annoyed when people call it an apartment.” “I get annoyed when William talks.” “That was also mentioned.” My eyes narrowed. Noah smiled. Dangerously charming. I didn’t return it.