“She said she wanted to go see Brantley. That was a couple hours ago.”
“Thank you,” I grit out. Anger surges in my chest, and I’m fully aware that it’s an irrational response, but it’s burning me up anyway. I pull up my dad’s assistant, Andrew, in my contacts and hit Call.
“Mr. Conner. How can I help?”
“Hi, Andrew. I need an address for Brantley Michaels in Vancouver.”
“Of course, I’ll text it to you immediately.” I hang up and leave my condo. I don’t actually know if she went to his place, but it’s a start.
True to his word, Andrew texts me Michaels’s address before the elevator reaches the lobby. Sometimes having awealthy, well-connected father has its advantages, even if said father is a complete tool.
I plug the address into my Maps app; Michaels is only a few minutes away. I step outside, pulling my coat closer and hunching over as the frigid wind gusts off the bay. I put my head down and jog along the sidewalk. By the time I arrive, my face is numb.
I stand in front of a drab two-story building that’s roughly the same shade of gray as the thick afternoon clouds. Just as I approach, a woman leaves, holding one of the large glass doors open, so I walk into the lobby, pausing to decide whether to go right or left. The carpet is scarlet with gaudy gold geometric patterns that remind me of an old movie theater, and the walls are lined with mirrors. The numbers seem to start to the right, so I walk down the hall until I reach number twenty-five, Michaels’s apartment.
My hand pauses in mid-air just below the large brass numbers on the door, and I stare at my shaking fist, unwanted nerves tickling my stomach.
What if Fi’s in there, and I interrupt something?But also, why would I care?It’s not like it’s my best friend and my stepmother.
I shake my head. “Stupid childhood trauma,” I mutter, then hit the door a little too forcefully.
I hear the sound of footsteps and then Michaels’s muffled voice. “I put in the app to leave the food outside. No contact, man!”
The door swings open, and Michaels stands in front of me looking groggy and annoyed. His hair sticks up crazily, and he’s shirtless, his abs looking a bit too toned. He’s wearing low-slung gray sweats, the top of his boxers peeking over the waistband.
I push past him, smacking his stomach as I pass. My gaze catches on the silvery-reddish scar across his throat. “Put on some clothes, idiot. Is she here?”
He stares at me in shock. “Bastian? What’re you doing here?Who’re you talking about?” He rubs his stomach with a hurt expression. “Also, ouch.”
I roll my eyes. “Fiona. Who else would I be talking about?”
Michaels’s eyebrows lower in confusion. “Why would Fi be here? I mean, I saw her earlier, but she’s not here. What’s going on?”
I look around Michaels’s apartment. Clothing is strewn all around the dimly lit living room, and the coffee table is littered with empty beer cans, some Tim Horton’s take out, and chip bags—all ketchup-flavored chips from the look of it.
“You don’t deserve those abs,” I mutter to myself.
“What?” He asks.
“What?” I parrot.
“Are you checking me out?”
“No,” I scoff. “Just not the diet I was expecting from an athlete.”
His gaze darkens. “I’m not an athlete.”
An episode ofSwamp Peopleis playing on the TV. I wrinkle my nose and nudge aside a pair of discarded shorts so that I can perch on the couch. At least it doesn’t seem to smell.
“When was the last time you cleaned this place, Stitch?”
“I’m so sorry,” Michaels snarks. “I didn’t realize I’d be having company.” He picks up a random shirt from the back of a chair, sniffs it, and pulls it over his head. “Now, what’s going on with Fi?”
I start to explain, but then realize that I have no idea how much Fi actually told him. “She was supposed to meet me a while ago, and she didn’t show up,” I lie. “Gabriella mentioned she came to see you. I just thought...”
“That she came here?” Michaels finishes quietly. I nod. “She didn’t.” He runs a hand through his unruly blond hair. “We met for coffee after she had lunch at the pub.”
“Fuck,” I growl, trying to hide the rising panic.
