One of the officers looked at him as Doris’s head popped round the corner of her door. She was dressed, but had a large towel wrapped around her head as if she’d just gotten out of the shower. She wasn’t wearing her glasses either, and it had the same effect on him as the other night. He stared. He tried not to. But he couldn’t help it.
“Sorry, who are you?” one of the officers asked.
“Oh, sorry.” He tore his eyes away from her. “Ryan Stark. Big important boss.” He smiled and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cheeks flush a bright shade of red.
“Okay, I think we’re done here.” The officer turned to her. “If it happens again, here’s my card.” He handed her a card and she took it in her tiny hands. “And if you think of anything more, Miss Peterson, don’t hesitate to call.”
Suddenly, she burst out laughing. A strange high-pitched laugh. “Granger-Peterson. Granger-Peterson! It’s double-barreled, but I usually just go with Granger. I sometimes even forget there’s a Peterson attached to it. Some days I even forget about the Granger too.” She looked confused for a moment or two and then pushed the policeman away with her arm. “Thanks for being so efficient!” she called after them as the officers walked away.
When the police left, he turned his attention to Doris Granger-Peterson once more. “Everything alright here?” he asked, trying to look into her flat. She deliberately blocked his line of sight.
“All good.” She flashed him a massive smile, one of those fake ones. “And I’m so sorry about this, I was just about to leave when they came, and I couldn’t get rid of them.” She gave him an apologetic look.
He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m just glad you’re okay . . . are you?” He stepped closer to her and looked over her shoulder, this time seeing into her apartment. “You said something about your ceiling . . .” He was using it as an excuse to get inside. He was curious to know what her home looked like and he pushed past her without an invitation.
“Wait!” she called, but it was too late, he was already standing in the middle of her apartment.
He was shocked. He looked up at her ceiling; her light bulb had come loose and was hanging by a wire. He looked down at his feet where grey bits of concrete had fallen onto the old carpet. His eyes moved around the room, trying to find one single redeeming feature, but there were none. And to top it off, the place was crammed with plants. Plants on tables, plants on windowsills, plants on floors . . .everywhere. This place was like a jungle. He’d never seen so many plants in one place in his entire life. And then he saw the beady eye staring up at him from behind one of the pots. She’d put newspaper down on the floor and the bird looked like he’d made himself right at home.
“It’s not much. But I call it home.” Her small voice had a fun, playful tone to it. He didn’t see the humor in it at all. “I need to . . . uh . . . get ready,” she said.
He turned and looked at her. She looked so out of place here with her perfect doll-like features and those eyes that were even brighter now that the early morning sun was shining through the window onto her face.
“Of course,” he said quickly.
She walked into the bathroom and closed the small door behind her. He looked around again.
God, she really didn’t belong here.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Poppy
I could see he was irritated. It was painted across his face, and he wasn’t even trying to hide it. I was in his office taking notes, but I could feel his disapproving eyes staring at me the entire time. It made me nervous, and I wanted to look up and scream . . .
WHAT?! What the fuck are you looking at? But Doris wouldn’t do that. Well, Poppy probably wouldn’t do it either—this man was too damn intimidating.
This man blew hot and cold, boiling and freezing all at once, so fast, it made my head spin. The drive to work had been okay, we’d said a few more words to each other today, and we hadn’t discussed the weather, which was an improvement. I’d commented on how pretty the view over the city was at this time of the morning, and he’d told me that he used to live in a penthouse in the tallest building in the city and this time of day had been his favorite. The comment had caught me off guard—such a comment and you would almost think this man was a normal human being. But he wasn’t. Because I was starting to disintegrate under the intensity of his gaze.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked politely.
“What?” he asked innocently, as if he bloody didn’t know what he was doing wrong.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked. “Am I not writing fast enough? Writing too fast? Don’t you like the way my pencil sounds on the paper? Am I wearing too much perfume, too little . . . what?”
“Isn’t that crack in your glasses irritating you?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“It’s not driving you absolutely mad that you’re seeing the world through a cracked lens that is probably distorting everything around you?”
“No.” I shook my head again. What did this have to do with anything?
“Well,” he leaned back in his chair. “It’s driving me mad. I can’t look at it anymore. Because every time I do, it makes me wonder what everything must look like, and when you’re going to misread something important because your vision is obscured.”
“Oh,” I replied flatly. What was I meant to say to that? Sorry, Your Highness, that the crack inmylens is makingyourday so bloody miserable.
“You need to go to an optometrist at lunch and have the lens fixed, or get a new pair of glasses.”
