“You’re hilarious,” she says flatly.
I meet her charged gaze. “Door’s over there if you want to go.”
She takes the bucket instead.
Chapter 11
Brussels Sprouts
Poppy
I am absolutely, positively convinced that Jack is the spawn of Satan.
I wonder what sulfur hole he crawled out of. Was he raised by wolves? Robots? He probably spent half the night thinking of ways to torture me.
Despite my best efforts, I was late this morning, and that’s all the excuse he needed to shove a sponge and a bucket of cleaning solution into my hands. I’ve been scrubbing away dirt, grease, and way more disgusting things I don’t want to think about, for hours. In a hairnet. On my knees.
And that’s not to mention themusic.
As soon as I figure out where he hides his phone, I’m changing the playlist. I’ve endured more rock and metal in half a day than I’ve listened to in my entire life. “Enter Sandman” looped like fifteen times before he finally put me out of my misery. Maybe it helps him get in the zone—he’s done nothing all morning but scrub, too, and bark orders at me when I’m not moving fast enough—but for me, it’s the equivalent of nails being pounded into my skull.
A Doors song comes on. I grip my sponge tightly, resisting the urge to fling it across the kitchen. He’s doing something in the walk-in, so unfortunately, I have no chance of hitting him.
I rise on creaky knees. Jim Morrison is chanting about blood anddeath and Los Angeles. I didn’t notice Jack’s phone in the pocket of his faded, bleach-stained jeans, which means it must be around here somewhere. I peer at the walk-in. He’s still inside, probably scraping at a bit of fossilized crud with a toothbrush in a corner no one would ever notice. I wonder if he’s this neat in his personal life, too. I’ve always been more of a hurricane, constantly losing things.
I don’t see him looking at me, so I set down my bucket of dirty water. I tiptoe through the kitchen, pausing to peek in cabinets and underneath lids. To let an “accident” befall the Bluetooth speaker perched atop the stainless-steel table adorned with heat lamps that he keeps callingthe passwould be too easy. Better to queue up another song. Something he’ll absolutely hate.
I grin at the thought of his reaction to Miley Cyrus. It would serve him right after scolding me when I shrieked at the sight of a decomposing lizard.
When I’ve poked through the kitchen without finding anything, I slip into the office, a tiny, windowless room mostly taken up by a desk covered in stacks of files. Bingo: There it is atop a clearly well-loved copy of Marcella Hazan’sEssentials of Classic Italian Cooking. Right next to a prescription container.
The small tube is in my hands before I can think about it. I shouldn’t look, it’s not my business, but I can’t help myself. I nearly drop it when I get a look at the label. Adderall. I double-check the name but it’s clear as day: Jackson Hartman.
There’s only one reason I can think of that he’d be prescribed that by an actual doctor. It looks real; it was refilled a few days ago.
“What are you doing in here?”
I jerk my head up. My knee smacks on the corner of the desk. The container slips out of my hand, hitting the floor with an unattractive rattle.
Jack is in the doorway, eyes narrowed, as he wipes his hands with a dishcloth. Somehow, despite cleaning all morning too, he looks more handsome than ever. Objectively speaking, of course. There’s no way to ignore that dark, disheveled hair and the sheen of sweat on his neck and arms.
“You have ADHD?” I blurt.
He bends to pick up the bottle, tucking it into his apron pocket.
Then he turns on his heel without a word.
“Jack.” I hurry after him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. I was only looking for your phone.” I wince; that doesn’t sound much better. “It’s just, the music—”
“Don’t go in the office.” He strides back into the walk-in.
I gulp as I follow. “Heard. Sorry.”
At the back of the walk-in, he leans against the wall, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger. I chew my lip anxiously. The refrigerator’s chill seeps through my shirt.
“Why were you looking for my phone?”
“Your taste in music sucks. What are you, sixty?” I’m desperate to ask again about the Adderall, but I don’t want him to shut me out even more. “Is this your idea of torture? Because if so, it’s working.”
