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Chapter 4
PETE
“Fuck!”
I stumble over the corner of the rug, reaching out to hit the lights, blinking at the sudden brightness. My phone is vibrating on the kitchen island, buzzing loudly. Who the fuck is calling me so early?
Snatching it up, I bite back a sigh at the sight of Artie’s name flashing and swipe to answer.
“Is the world ending?” I mutter, sliding into the kitchen and starting the coffee machine. The fucking sun isn’t even up. I’m going to need so much fucking coffee to start my brain.
“Late night, cuz?”
I scowl, flipping off my apartment, and grab a mug.
“Actually, no. I just don’t normally get up before the fucking sun. You probably don’t remember what that’s like, but having a rugrat was your choice.”
Artie snorts again, saying something to someone at the other end, probably his wife, Holly.
“I’m not calling because I’m awake early and bored, cuz,” he drawls. Artie always calls me “cuz”, but we’re not actually cousins. His father is my father’s cousin, so he’s my second cousin. Too fucking close, if you ask me right now, standing in my too bright apartment staring at the blackness outside.
We work together at Rampwood & Stein, and I assume this call is work-related.
“Look, we’re still in New York until Thursday.”
That’s right, their fucking vacation, no wonder he’s calling me this early, it’s after nine A.M. there.
“And you need me to be your bitch here at work?” I guess, pouring a mug of coffee and starting to drink it black. I need straight caffeine, no fixings.
“Look, shit is getting real with Josh Grady’s transfer negotiations. The meeting is at nine A.M. in our office. I need you to take it.”
Josh Grady, the superstar NFL player, requested a transfer from the Rams to the Seahawks. This is his third NFL team. He was with the 49ers when Artie first started representing him. The deal must be close if they’ve flown to Seattle for the meeting, rather than Artie flying to them.
“Fine. I’ll take it.”
“I owe you one, cuz.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Artie chuckles as the phone goes dead. Sighing, I drop it back onto the counter, taking my mug of coffee as I walk through the condo in search of a shower and my clothes. I’ll grab breakfast on the way. I need to read through the files, so I’m not caught out with this meeting. God. Artie owes me one.
Fuck it. I’m cutting out early. I was here at the ass crack of dawn. I can leave at four. It’s a novelty to be leaving the office in winter before the sun goes down, even if it’s only by half an hour.
I shrug into my dark navy woolen coat, grabbing my briefcase and nodding to Paul, my secretary, as I leave. Reaching my car in the underground parking garage, I dig into my pocket, searching for my keys. Instead of metal and plastic, my fingers close around a piece of card.
Frowning, I fish it out, holding it up to look at it. Melinda Larch – Seattle University, and a phone number. Melinda Larch? The name doesn’t ring a bell. I crumple the card in my hand, trying to work out when I would have put it in there. I’ve never met a Melinda in my life.
Seattle University. Melinda….
“Tinker Bell?”
My voice echoes around the parking garage as I chuckle, smoothing out the card and sliding into my car. I hold up the crumpled card, smirking. When the fuck would Tinker Bell have slipped it into my pocket? I don’t recall her holding a card at any point. It had to have been when I kissed her against the door of her apartment.
I crumple the card again, chuckling, my hand hovering to drop it into the center console. But my fingers don’t release it. Sighing, I smooth it out again, digging my phone out of my pocket, keying in the number, and pulling up a new text message.
PETE: You better not have gone for that swim.
Dropping the phone into the center console with the creased card, I pull out of my parking space, driving up through the underground parking garage. My phone beeps as I approach the exit.
There are no cars behind me, so I stop, plucking it up and blinking at the screen, my mouth dry.
TINKER BELL: Maybe you should come and check?
Toying with my phone, I contemplate my options. I’m scrolling back through my GPS app, pulling up her address from last week. I could go home. I have already told her – multiple times – that she’s not my type.
Tapping on her address, I plug my phone in, bringing the GPS up on the car’s internal screen. I should go home. I should text Andy and see if he wants to hit the sports bar. I should absolutely not follow the instructions my GPS is giving me.
Starting the car, I drive through the exit, pausing again as I reach the road. Right will take me home to Belltown. Left will take me to First Hill. Andy lives in First Hill. He just bought and renovated a condo there. But he won’t be home. The only person I know in First Hill who might be home is Tinker Bell. Gritting my teeth, I indicate and pull out onto the road, turning left.
Given the time of day, the roads are relatively easy to navigate. The sun is sinking lower and lower, and by the time I pull up out the front of her colorful apartment building, it is dark, the streetlight near where I parked illuminating the sidewalk. There is a gentle remnant of the snow from two days ago, but it hasn’t snowed recently.
There is no answer when I press the buzzer reading Larch/Armstrong. Armstrong must be the best friend marrying the prick who is letting her drop out of college five months shy of graduation.
The front door is open, so I duck inside, taking the elevator to the fourth floor and hammering on her door. Still no answer. Surely Tinker Bell wouldn’t have me drive over here if she wasn’t fucking home.
Frowning, I pull out my phone, reading the message again. Maybe you should come and check. Come and check she didn’t go for a cold, nighttime swim in the rooftop pool…. Fucking hell. She’s in the rooftop pool. I’d bet my Belltown condo on it.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I storm back to the elevator, jabbing at the Up button. Luckily, the elevator I came up in is still here. Stepping through before the doors are even fully open, I stab at the R button for the rooftop.
I stew the whole way up, stepping out into a small, glass-enclosed foyer. Through the glass doors, I can see the rooftop space. It’s nicely done, with a lap pool, some sun loungers, and a covered barbecue area off to the side. There are lights on. I can see a pile of clothes sitting on a cold-looking metal bench and a flash of dark hair in the water.
Stalking outside, my eyes fixed on the figure in the pool, I walk across, my hands shoved in my pockets.
“Enjoying the water, Tinker Bell?” I call out when I reach the edge of the pool, small amounts of steam rising off it as the frigid air caresses the heated water.
She jumps, spinning in the water and grinning up at me. Her dark hair is sleekly pushed off her face, the ends floating on the water as she carefully breaststrokes over to me.
“You came. I had my doubts.”
I smirk down at her, opening my mouth to respond when she comes to a halt at the edge of the pool, at my feet, resting her forearms on the concrete and tipping her head back.
My mouth closes into a thin line as I look down at her completely naked body, barely obscured through the clear water. Is she completely insane? This place is lit up. Anyone across the street could look over and see her.
Her grin widens as I reach down, though she blinks in surprise, her deliciously plump lips making an adorable “o” as I seize her arms, lifting her out of the pool, water cascading back in.
“Hey!” she squeals as I set her down, grabbing her clothes and towel and marching her over to the enclosed and covered barbecue area. At least in here, her delectable body isn’t on display to anyone but me.
Dropping her things onto the countertop, I crowd her, getting all up in her face.
“What the hell were you thinking, Tinker Bell? Anyone could have fucking seen you!”
“So what?”
So what? So fucking what? Is she fucking serious? My nostrils flare with annoyance at her lack of self-preservation.
“So, one rogue photo on the internet could derail your future completely. If whoever took it was able to identify you, any future employer could have it at their fingertips the instant they searched your name.”
“Oh.” Her voice is smaller, and she has deflated a little from her previous ‘holier-than-thou, you can’t tell me what to do’ stance. “I didn’t really think about that.”
“Clearly,” I grit out, glaring at her. “How long were you in the water?”
“W-what? Why? Do you think someone took photos of me?”
