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“Hey, this is Ryan from the party,” a guy’s voice said. “I heard you’re worried about your sister.”
“Not worried exactly, but I’d like to know where she is.”
“Well, she hasn’t been abducted, if that’s what you’re thinking. I called the guy who gave her a ride—his name’s Kurt—and he said your sister had him drop her at a triple-decker on Carton Street in Allston—at 745 or 747, he thinks, with shingles—and she went into the apartment on the lower level. She told them she was spending the night with some guy she just started seeing.”
Ah, a booty call, like I’d surmised, but something still felt off to me and I found myself jotting the address down on a scrap of paper. “It’s weird she hasn’t let me know, though.”
“That’s probably because her phone’s not working. She borrowed Kurt’s girlfriend’s phone because she’d spilled beer on hers.”
Okay, now thingswerestarting to make sense. Chloe certainly didn’t have my number memorized.
“Got it, thanks,” I said. “I appreciate you tracking down these people for me.”
“No problem... Hey, she’s your younger sister, right?”
“Yeah, by four years. Why?”
“Maybe cut her some slack. You know how little siblings can be.”
“Yeah, I do. Thanks again.”
Of course, I would cut her some slack. That’s what I always did with Chloe. And though part of me was annoyed, a sense of relief overpowered my irritation.
As soon as we hung up, I texted Kim, letting her know Chloe was fine. She said she was relieved, too, since her calls had turned up nothing and she’d started to stress herself.
Seconds later, as I heard Colton and Adam burst through the front door of the apartment, my phone rang again. Tess.
“Your sister materialize yet?” she asked.
“Yeah, she’s apparently fine, but her phone’s broken so we still haven’t talked.” Though I’d wandered back to the bedroom by now, I lowered my voice. “My next challenge is figuring out how to get out of the last-minute dinner party my roommates are throwing. I don’t have anywhere to go, and it would be weird to hide in my room, faking a migraine.”
“Want to stay here?” she asked.
She didn’t mean her apartment. Occasionally, when the Kensington wasn’t fully booked, she’d offer me a room simply so I could sleep for a night between high-thread-count sheets and have a marble bathroom with fancy soap and free cotton puffs all to myself. I gave it two seconds’ thought before telling her yes.
As soon as I signed off, I stuffed a duffel bag with a few clothes and toiletries, explained to my roommates that I had to decline theirinvitation because a friend “needed a shoulder to cry on,” and headed for the nearest T stop.
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I ENTERED THE KENSINGTON’S SMALLbut elegant lobby, with its vaulted ceiling and curved marble staircase. Tess was working the front desk with another clerk, and I shot her a discreet smile before assuming a place in line behind a couple of other people checking in. It was nice to be back in this luxurious space, with the intoxicating scent of lavender that was always in the air.
As it worked out, I ended up reaching the head of the line when the other clerk became available, but since he had no clue about my special arrangement, I motioned for the guy behind me in line to go ahead. He was in his mid- to late thirties, I guessed, tall and sandy-haired with a confident air. I felt myself grow oddly flustered as his deep blue eyes met mine.
A minute later, the guest Tess had been dealing with moved off, and I strode toward the counter, greeting her politely as if the two of us were strangers. While she checked me in, I found my eyes wandering down the counter toward the guy I’d waved ahead of me. He was in profile now, and I saw that he had what an art teacher of mine called a Roman nose, strong with a little bend at the bridge. He was dressed in nice jeans, a crisp white dress shirt, and a navy blazer, and his only luggage was a pricey-looking black roller bag with a crocodile leather luggage tag. Based on the fact it was Saturday night, I guessed he was in town for personal reasons, though maybe he’d tacked on the weekend to a business trip that started Monday.
Unexpectedly, he turned in my direction and caught me staring. His eyes locked with mine again for a couple of seconds, then he returned his attention to the clerk in front of him.
Okay, that was weird, I thought.I wasn’t in the habit of checking out men his age, and it was hard to believe a guy like him—polished, sophisticated, maybe even a little arrogant—was looking twice at a lowly grad student dressed in jeans and a fisherman knit sweater. Surely, he couldn’t be interested.
But several hours later, I’d see it differently. Because by then, I was in his hotel bed, lying naked beside him.
6
Now
BRADLEY KANE KNOWS SOMETHING’S UP. IT’S CLEAR FROM HIS EXPRESSIONthat he’s spotted the flicker of recognition in my eyes.
He cocks his head.
“What?” he asks quietly, perhaps fearful that if he pounces, I’ll clam up or lie to him.
