Okay, then.
I left Christian and Dante in the lobby, the subjects of more than a few admiring stares from passersby, and took the elevator up to my apartment.
I didn’t know what had caused Christian’s sudden mood shift, but I had enough worries of my own without adding his to the mix.
I rifled through the bag, trying to locate my keys among the jumble of makeup, receipts, and hair ties.
I really needed a better way of organizing my bag.
After several minutes of searching, my hand closed around the metal key.
I’d just inserted it into the lock when a familiar chill swept over my skin and raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
My head jerked up.
There was no other sign of life in the hall, but the quiet hum of the heating system suddenly took on an ominous tone.
Memories of typed notes and candid photos turned my breaths shallow before I blinked them away.
Stop being paranoid.
I wasn’t living in an old, unsecured house near campus anymore. I was at the Mirage, one of the most well-guarded residential buildings in D.C., and I hadn’t heard from him in two years.
The chances of him showing up here, of all places, were slim to none.
Nevertheless, urgency broke the spell freezing my limbs in place. I quickly unlocked the front door and shut it behind me. The lights blazed on as I slid the deadbolt in place.
It was only after I checked every room in my apartment and confirmed there was no intruder lurking in my closet or underneath my bed that I was able to relax.
Everything was fine. He wasn’t back, and I was safe.
But despite my self-reassurance, a small part of me couldn’t shake the sense that my gut had been right and that someone had been watching me in the hall.