Page 48 of Hunt You Down

“And someone to occupy the couch so you don’t fall asleep on it?”

“Yes, that’ll be helpful.”

I reluctantly agreed, and André left me on the bed to finish getting dressed. I washed up in the sink and ran a brush through my hair, trying to cover my scar.

Painkillers made me sluggish, so most of my day was spent on André’s office couch with a blanket. He only woke me up for lunch and the second he left for his meeting, I laid down again, fighting to keep my eyes open until I heard the lock click into place. We were on the twelfth floor of a building that had security everywhere, but I didn’t trust any of it.

Since I’d been sleeping, André had kept his curtains closed. When he woke me up sometime later, I had no idea what time it was. He gently stroked my hair and kissed my cheek until I forced my eyes open. “What time is it?” I asked, sitting up.

“Almost four,” André said, rising from his knees to sit next to me. “I have to meet a photographer at a listing, but I thought we could grab dinner on the way home?”

“Could dinner be takeout on the couch? These painkillers are no joke.”

“This suit is itchy and uncomfortable, so yes, takeout sounds great.”

As I bent over to tie my shoes, my bladder made it clear that it wasn’t going to be ignored for long. “Can I use the bathroom first?”

“Sure.”

André gave me a kiss and while he packed his things away, I ventured out of the office to find the bathrooms. Only a few steps away from André’s door, my heart started to race.

Slipping into the men’s room, I was relieved to at least find it empty. But the moment I needed to round a corner, I froze. Not only did the row of urinals have my back to the door, it was hidden from view—anyone would be able to sneak up on me. Nope. I could hold it.

I spun and left, hightailing it back to the safety of André’s office. If he noticed my panic, he didn’t address it. “Ready?” he asked.

With the threat gone, my bladder twinged again, but I ignored it. Having André in sight was enough to assuage the panic. I could wait until we got home. “Yeah.”

Thankfully, the meeting wasn’t too far away, and I really hoped things would go quickly.

Where I grew up, a lot of houses sat away from the road, usually surrounded by woods. In some places, there could be half a mile between neighbors.

That wasn’t the case in New Orleans. You could throw a rock and hit your neighbor’s house, and parking on the street was normal. I had to close my eyes while André parked, the close proximity of the cars freaking me out.

I offered to stay in the car, but André insisted that I come in and see the house. He lowered his voice speaking to the photographer, and I fell into step behind them.

I followed the two men through the wrought-iron gate and up the wooden stairs to the heavy oak door. André unlocked it and let us in ahead of him. I was amazed. The beautiful, historic home seemed to have been frozen in time. There was a fireplace in every room, and two in the master suite. Victorian chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. I almost expected to turn a corner and find a 1900’s housewife waiting for her husband to return from war.

Exquisite marble counters decorated the kitchen and bathrooms, and shining hardwood floors lined the hallways. Only the bedrooms had fluffy white carpet that I refused to walk on. I didn’t want to be the person to mess it up.

The master suite was the last to be photographed and when I paused at the door, André took my hand and tugged me over the threshold. The photographer clicked away, seeming to move around behind us so we wouldn’t be in the shot. The closet was the size of André’s bedroom, and the inset waterfall shower spanned an entire wall in the bathroom.

“What would someone do with all of this space?” I asked, taking in the double vanity that sat on white French counters with brushed antique gold.

“Well, if they had millions to spend on a house, I’m sure they could figure it out.”

André stood at the window, pointing over the backyard.

“That spot would be perfect for a pool.”

I made a small noise in agreement with him and leaned against the counter, starting to regret the large drink I had with my lunch. My bladder cramped, desperate for relief.

The only thing that even remotely eased the discomfort was looking at André. He strolled around the place, directing the photographer and his confidence was fucking hot.

“What do you think?” he asked once he’d locked up. He put his arm around me and led me back to the car

“It’s gorgeous.” Pain rippled up my sides now, and it showed in my voice.

“Are you okay?”