Finishing my latte, I toss my cup in a trash can, fishing my cell out of my purse when it rings, as I wander to the apartment block entrance. I inhale and answer. “James.”
“Where are you?” he snaps.
I recoil, slowing to a stop, taken aback. “I didn’t realize I needed to run every move I make past you,” I retort, hanging up on him, outraged. “Asshole,” I grumble, forcing my feet into moving, trying to locate my earlier excitement. I only make it a few paces before he’s calling me again. I lift my palm to my forehead, rubbing, squeezing my eyes closed. God damn him. And God damn me. I answer with silence.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean to sound so curt.”
“Bad day?” What did he do? What were those errands?
“Had better,” he says, only making those questions circle faster. “So where are you?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see you.”
“What about what I want?” I retort. It’s stupid, but I won’t let him believe I’m at his beck and call, however much I’d love to be his cure for everything. But nothing could cure those scars.
“Stop it, Beau,” he says tiredly. “Where are you?”
“Biscayne Bay.”
“Why?”
“I’m viewing an apartment.” My declaration receives silence in reply. “I thought it was about time I moved on from Lawrence and Dexter’s.” I don’t want to even imagine the reaction I’ll get from my uncle. He won’t see this as a good thing. Not now that he’s met James.
“Interesting.”
“Why’s that interesting?” I ask, scowling at the ground.
“What time’s your viewing?”
“In ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there. Send me the address.”
“What?” I blurt. “But it’ll take you over half an hour to get here from your place.”
“Who said I’m at my place?”
My shoulders straighten, and I start circling on the spot, my eyes scoping the space around me. It wouldn’t be the first time James has followed me. “Where are you?” I ask, suddenly feeling like I’m being watched, the hairs on my neck standing on end.
“Just dealing with some business.”
I laugh under my breath. “That didn’t answer my question.” And it sounds very dubious.
“Send me the address, Beau,” he orders before hanging up.
I slowly, reluctantly, tap out a message to him, all the while wondering . . . what the hell is going on here? Not the weird stuff, the curiosity, the mysterious happenings. But between James and me? I’m looking at an apartment to buy, and he wants to come. Why?
I ponder that while I wait outside the foyer of the block, my mind turning in circles. Does he want to give his approval? Check everything is in order? I spin my cell in my grasp, checking left and right, keeping an eye out for him.
“Miss Hayley?”
I swing around toward the doors, finding a young hip guy in a suit so tight it’s got to be uncomfortable. “You must be Dean.”
His eyes light up. “Pleasure to meet you.” He takes my extended hand and holds it for too long for my liking, the dollar signs virtually pinging into his eyes. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking young cash buyer, and I’m here alone. I’m not being presumptuous. “Likewise,” I say without thinking, flexing my fingers for him to release me.
“Oh.” He drops my hold, and I smile awkwardly. “Shall we?” He swoops his arm out toward the door, and I look over my shoulder, searching for James.
“Actually, I’m just waiting for my . . .” I snap my mouth closed. My what? “Friend,” I finish, finding no sign of James.
“We can let her up when she arrives,” Dean suggests, encouraging me into the lobby. His smile is going to break his face if he doesn’t ease it a bit. “So there’s a twenty-four-hour concierge,” he says, indicating the desk, where a middle-aged guy sits, looking utterly bored. Now that is a concierge. Otto is definitely no concierge. Dean pushes the button for an elevator and stands back, giving me a cheesy grin. “I’m assuming security is important.”
“Why?” I ask, stepping in when it arrives, Dean joining me.
He falters, looking incredibly awkward. “Well.” He coughs. “Isn’t it for everyone?” Another cheesy grin. He dug himself out of that one quite speedily.
“Oh,” I say, looking up at the panel that’s ticking up through the floors. “I assumed you meant because I’m a single female.”
“God, no.” He laughs. “I’m a modern man, Miss Hayley.”
I smile to myself, wondering what the hell a modern man is. I won’t ask. I can’t bear to see him squirming.
The doors open, and I step out, looking up and down the corridor. It’s clean. Tidy. A bit soulless, but it’s just a corridor.
“Last door on the right.” Dean lets me lead on, and I expect it’s all part of his modern-man philosophy.
We reach a solid wooden door, and the number 7 on a plaque on the wall to the side sparkles.