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“That’s because not only is the intercom on the fritz, it’s touch and go if the code works to unlock the front door. Therefore, we just keep it open so we can actually get into the building. Obviously not optimal, but I’d rather be able to access my home, rather than standing outside of it calling everyone I know who lives inside to see if they’ll come open the door for me. And my neighbors feel the same.”
“Elsa, you don’t live on a farm in the middle of nowhere in Nebraska,” he stated.
“No kidding?” I asked with eyes wide in faux surprise. “Now, how did I miss that?”
He ignored me and declared, “You pay rent. When shit like this happens, you report it.”
“Trust me, I have. Maria, my next-door neighbor, has. Yolanda, the chick who lives below me, has. Salim, the gent who lives on the first floor, definitely has. That company just sucks.”
“And you’ve had my phone number for a year.”
Again, was he serious?
“So this is my fault?” I demanded.
“You’re not safe. No one in this building is safe.”
“Excuse me, but I didn’t think reporting on the functionality of our intercom would be something of interest to a man who manages the width and breadth of your vast empire. I can’t say it crossed my mind, but if it did, my guess would be you’d tell me to report it to the management company.”
“No,” he refuted. “I would have done something about it.”
“Consider me educated as to the new reporting structure.”
He continued to scowl at me a beat, unimpressed by my sarcasm, before he noted, “You live on the fourth floor. Without an elevator, do you lug groceries up three flights of stairs?”
Like I had time to cook.
I didn’t tell him that. I said, “Yes.”
“Christ,” he clipped.
“Are we going to talk about this for the next hour, or can I get dressed, seeing as I’m not ready because you came early?” I asked. “And just to say, I’m perfectly willing to talk about this for the next hour. My mother will harangue me for being so late, but it’ll be less time I’ll have to listen to her haranguing me about anything at all.”
This time, he didn’t scowl at me, he studied me.
And then his eyes roamed over me.
Finally, he said, “As much as it hurts to lose you in that robe, since it’s burned on my brain, and we have a family dinner to attend, you better change.”
I gave him a salute, saying, “Righty ho, bossman. I’ll be out in a jiffy.” Then, as I moved to the bedroom, I offered, “There’s filtered water in the fridge and an opened bottle of red on the counter, help yourself if you want.”
I closed the door behind me.
I finished with my mascara, did some highlighting, spritzed with setting spray, perfumed with Versace Dylan Blue and decided against jeans and for a satin skirt in a salmon color to complement the peach tones of the slouchy sweater. This meant I pulled on a pair of nude tights to keep things smooth and offer another layer of protection against the cold. I did a messy partial tuck of the sweater into the skirt, put on some wide gold hoops, an array of slender rings, a few bangles that competed in a way I liked with the long sleeves of the sweater and pulled on my Veronica Beard, chestnut suede, spike-heeled booties.
Grabbing my wrap, I headed out.
Hale was sitting in my cranberry chair, head bent to his phone, when I did.
He looked up at me, did another body scan, his lips quirked up, and his eyes found mine.
“You lied about the groceries.”
I felt my eyebrows snap together. “Did you snoop?”
“You told me to help myself. I went for water, and by the way, I filled up your LifeStraw.”
“I’m sure it comes as no surprise I don’t spend my weekends concocting gourmet meals in a miniscule galley kitchen,” I commented as I tossed my wide, wool wrap around my shoulders and snatched up my clutch, neglecting to tell him I barely knew how to cook at all, and didn’t want to know.
