“I could get in touch easily,” Chase continues. “We’ve done business with West Tech in the past. It wouldn’t take more than a phone call, if you’re open to—”
“No.” My voice is flat. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him. Not now… not ever.”
Chase pauses, processing the chill in my words, the rigidity of my frame.
“Okay, sunshine,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head. “Okay.”
It takes a while, but eventually I fall asleep in the circle of his arms.
***
The sound of loud, booted footsteps clomping against hardwood stirs me awake. My eyes blink open and I see it’s midmorning, maybe near noon, if the bright sunlight pouring through the balcony windows is any indication. I’m alone in bed and this time there’s no note on Chase’s empty pillow.
Hearing hushed, unfamiliar voices drifting from the main room, I reach over the edge of the bed and grab his rumpled t-shirt off the floor. I glance around for the shopping bags Shelby delivered before the gala, but they aren’t on the armchair, where I left them. A squirmy feeling stirs in my stomach as I follow my instincts across the room, into the walk-in closet where Chase keeps his clothes.
Sure enough, folded neatly on the shelves to my left, are four pairs of jeans. My gala dress is hanging neatly in a garment bag, next to a colorful array of blouses and tops that Shelby purchased. Grumbling under my breath about bossy, presumptuous billionaires, who charge ahead into new territory without eventhinkingabout asking for permission, I snatch a pair of jeans off the top of the stack and stuff my legs into them. As I pull on a bra and do up the buttons of what I must admit is a very pretty top, I think of the many, many things I’m going to say to Chase when I find him. Big things. Possiblyloudthings, at the top of my lungs.
At which point, he’d better explain it was all an accident, that his housekeeper put my things in his closet without checking with him.
Because, seriously, if he moved me into his apartment without so much as a conversation…
I’ll have to kill him.
When I’m dressed, I pop into the bathroom to take care of business, shriek at the scary state of my waves —hello, sex hair— and brush my teeth as fast as possible. Rubbing at my bleary eyes, I head into the kitchen, fully expecting to find Chase talking to Evan or Knox — or even Shelby, if she’s in a particularly persistent mood.
I donotexpect to find three hulking men in GALIZIA MOVING CO. shirts lugging boxes out of the elevator and depositing them along the wall on the far side of the loft.
My wide eyes meet the steady brown gaze of a tall, muscular, bald man who looks a little like Bruce Willis.
“We’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, ma’am.” He nods courteously and continues stacking boxes. “Just a couple more of these to unload.”
“Okay?” My eyes drift around the apartment, searching for Chase, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, they catch on one of the boxes. Because peeking out the top, I see something I recognize. Something I thought I’d never see again.
A square throw pillow, with a red and blue peacock-feather design.
The same one that used to sit on top of my bed.
But that’s impossible.
Unless…
I force myself to stay calm as I take slow steps across the room, my eyes locked on the boxes like they contain something hazardous, that’ll kill me if I get too close. Like nuclear waste. Or a biochemical weapon.
Unfortunately, it’s much, much worse than that.
Because, when I get close enough, I see itismy peacock pillow. And it’s sitting on a stack of books I recognize from my destroyed shelves, their covers tattered but still in place. I barely breathe as my hands tear through box after box, unearthing more of my belongings — a set of knives, my blender, a paint-splattered pair of jeans, some underwear, my makeup bag, a jewelry box, some candles, a vase.
The only scraps that escaped Ralph’s ransacking.
I whirl to face the mover-men, hands planted on my hips. The bald man catches my eyes, startling at the scary expression on my face. The other two get one look at me and wisely board the elevator to escape my wrath.
“What are you doing?” I snap at the bald man, as the elevator slides closed.
“Just…” He looks nervous. “Just my job, ma’am.”
I sigh and try to make my voice less shrill. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I just need to know who told you to bring these boxes here?”
“Well… Mr. Croft.” He swallows. “His instructions were real clear — package up whatever was salvageable at a crappy little apartment over in Cambridge, trash the rest. Then, he said to bring the boxes here, wait for a scary looking fella named Knox to let us in through the service entrance, and unload ‘em here, in the penthouse.”