Page 16
And he’d come to an awful lot of conclusions over that first week.
While she was out on her walks, Wolfe moved through the house without care. He drifted from room to room, studying all the things she’d touched. She’d snooped through his things, so he thought it was only fair that he did the same.
She had too many soaps, which was his first conclusion.
Why would one person need so many soaps, lotions, and creams?
He’d heard the words from guests before—skin care.
Whatever that meant.
Second, it seemed that she hadn’t been lying to him—his busybody roommate was a writer.
Avery Eden, to be precise. He’d found a copy of her book by her bedside table, a corner of the cover bent from being shoved inside her suitcase. He’d mustered what energy he could to nudge the book, flipping it over to read the synopsis.
A romance novel. He found himself intrigued against his better judgement. She seemed too…subdued to write romance. He hadn’t seen her smile once. Hadn’t heard her laugh. No, Avery Eden seemed content to drift, just as lost and lonely as he was.
The third thing he took notice of was that she was a stickler for routines. Every morning, her alarm went off at seven a.m. sharp. She laid in bed for twenty minutes, scrolling and sighing. She dragged herself from bed, into his kitchen, and made tea. She walked for an hour up and down the cliffs like they’d be able to give her all the answers she was looking for.
They wouldn’t.
He’d tried to do the same thing once.
She came back. Perched in his study, rifled through his things with those slender fingers of hers, and picked at her lunch. The woman did not eat enough.
His fourth observation.
She sang while she brushed her teeth. She could not hold a tune, but that didn’t stop her from humming or mumbling words while she spat out her tooth paste.
She liked chocolate. Correction—she loved chocolate. Ice cream from the shop in town, candies that made her fingers sticky. He could smell it on her every time she walked past. Coupled with the scent of tea and parchment, he decided it was not a horrific thing to have to be subjected to day in and day out.
He watched her while she stared at her computer, eyes locked on the screen.
“Are we capable of anything today?” he’d asked. “Or are you content to burn out your retinas?”
Eventually, she closed her laptop and stood.
She walked again.
This time, back through town.
Seven days of this nonsense.
Seven days of having to listen to her bump around his castle.
He enjoyed their game.
He found himself smiling when he discovered his study door wedged open, a stack of books keeping it in place. It had taken him a good long while to move them, mustering more energy than he’d summoned in a long time. He shoved for a good half hour before the books finally toppled over and the door closed.
His emotions were conflicting—irritation at not being able to touch, sick satisfaction for the scowl he knew would be on her face in the morning.
What a way to spend an eternity.
He did find, on his ninth observation, that she kept his portrait with her. She carried it room to room, staring at it more often than not. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him—at who he used to be.
She spoke to him, too.
Sometimes it was nothing more than a grunt or groan of frustration.
