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Darcy’s gray eyes stare accusingly through the metal.
“Right, but see. We’re only here for a couple of days, and there is really no need to go to all that trouble. This is definitely a temporary thing.” I look back at Henry. “So, maybe you didn’t see anything?”
“I didn’t?” His eyes crinkle around the corners.
“Nope.” I wave to his carrier. “Maybe you thought it was another duffle bag.”
Another meow has Henry raising one silver eyebrow at me.
I hold up the Werther’s. “I’m assuming your silence can be bought?”
“With my own candy?” He playfully scoffs.
“I’m working with limited resources.” I shrug, and he responds with a warm laugh.
“I’ll see what I can do, Miss Beckett.”
“You can call me Laney. All my friends do.”
His expression softens. “Miss Laney it is. And the tiny, invisible companion—does she have a name?”
“He is Mr. Darcy.”
Henry looks pointedly at the carrier as he heads out. “Who’s Darcy?”
Well played, Henry, well played—definitely a keeper. You know, for the forty-eight hours I'll be here.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” Henry opens the door and flashes me a knowing smile. “Have a good evening, Miss Laney.”
“Will do, Henry. Thank you for all your help.” The door closes behind him, leaving me alone in Bishop’s apartment.
Well mostly. Crouching down, I unzip the carrier, and Darcy shoots out like I’ve been holding him hostage.
“You’re welcome.”
He disappears around the sectional.
Traitor.
I straighten and look around again. Bishop’s place is everything and yet nothing as I expected. Not that I spent a lot of time thinking about it or anything.
Larger than life. Masculine. Polished. It looks like a very expensive bachelor pad without looking cliché, like someone hired a designer and told them to make it aggressively male.
Maybe it’s all those pillows.
Dark wood. Black leather. Gray stone. Exposed brick. Heavy beams overhead. The kitchen is all clean lines and stainless steel, with a massive island separating it from the living room. A television on the opposite wall is almost as big as the Welcome to Evergreen sign.
“Of course. Guys and their flat screens.” Pretty sure my brother has the same one.
Down the hall behind the kitchen: a semi-stocked pantry, a modern guest bath, and a laundry room that makes me snort. I have a hard time imagining all six-foot-three inches of Bishop sorting and folding his socks.
At the end, a partially open door reveals a home gym. Weights. Treadmill. Bench. More equipment than I know what to do with, especially given the gym isn’t really my thing. The athletic genes all went to my brother.
My gaze catches on a rowing machine, and all thoughts of family are replaced because, against my will, my brain supplies an image of Bishop using said rowing machine.
Dark short. No shirt.
Gliding back and forth.
