“Hey, do you want something to drink? I have some OJ and…” As I turn around, my voice trails off.
Edgar is standing in my living room, his jaw slack.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jo
Edgar is different. He isn’t in a hideously expensive—but sexy—suit. He’s in a T-shirt that says “Hollywood Stole My Heart” and artfully faded jeans. No creases. And his feet are in a pair of Chuck Taylors.
I’ve never seen him this casual, and it’s all I can do to stare for a moment, trying to decide if I’m hallucinating. I didn’t buzz him in through the intercom. And the building has a rule to not let strangers in for security reasons. He isn’t even in his Brioni, which would at least make him look unquestionably respectable.
“What are you doing here?” I try to sound firm and in control, but my voice comes out squeaky and breathless.
My question pulls Edgar’s gaze to me. He frowns for a moment, probably needing time to get over the shock. He looks a little like he just bit into a fresh jalapeño.
I try to see my place through his eyes. Clothes are piled over the back of my couch, the chairs, even on one of the lamps. They’re the ones I decided I don’t want to take after all. And shoes… They’re everywhere on the floor. If they were landmines, nobody would survive.
Towers of boxes also loom haphazardly all over the living room, like so many cardboard stalagmites. If I didn’t know better, I might think somebody’d detonated an haute-fashion bomb.
“I ran into Hugo,” Edgar says finally.
r /> Hugo. Of course! He probably let Edgar in.
I’m going to murder my cousin.
“Been really busy packing,” I say hurriedly. “Didn’t have time to clean up yet.”
“I see.”
His voice is too serious. Too smooth. Probably he’s judging without appearing judgmental. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those things you learn in finishing schools in the South…
Except—do guys go to finishing schools?
Should I ask to be sure?
“Normally, it looks better than this,” I lie, hoping it sounds convincing.
“Of course.”
He says it the way you’d say it to a used car salesman when he claims there’s no better car on the lot, and if you walk out, some other lucky person’s going to snatch up the five-year-old, pea-puke-green Buick.
“This apartment is entirely too small to store all your things,” Edgar says. This time, he’s smoother, like actually he believes what he’s saying. “Are you throwing away things you aren’t taking with you? I can arrange for that so we don’t have to spend time on it.”
“No. I’m keeping everything.” I sigh. “I tried to Marie Kondo my stuff, but it didn’t work.”
“They all brought you pleasure when you held them?”
“Basically,” I say, surprised he knows about it. Most men aren’t into Japanese-style downsizing. And I can’t imagine Edgar as the type to stuff his closets to bursting with clothes, shoes and accessories. Based on what I’ve seen, he’s more likely to have a few really good, very expensive classic pieces that he rotates around.
“So I suppose this means you’re moving in with me?” he asks.
“Yes.” Isn’t that obvious? I’m not in the habit of packing my things. I don’t suppose most people are.
“I was wondering. You didn’t call.”
Oh. Crap. I told him I’d let him know this evening, but it slipped my mind while I was busy sorting through my stuff. Then a thought occurs to me. “Are you here to get my answer?”
“Yes.” He frowns a little. “And if your answer isn’t what I want, I was planning on making a case.”