AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Rolling my eyes, I push the door open and stare inside. I’m not sure why in my mind the house still looked the same as when Mrs. Benson was here, but it doesn’t. She’s completely transformed the inside, modernized it, and although I don’t know her well, it looks just like her.
It looks incredible.
The living room has a large black-and-white-patterned throw rug and a plush navy velvet couch. The fireplace has been whitewashed and perfectly placed details are everywhere: the curtains, the lights, the artwork, and the plants. She has more plants than I have time to count.
Does it look like too many plants? Not necessarily if you like that sort of thing, but seeing all this makes me understand why she brought me one.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see it’s Cole.
“What?” I ask him. It’s been three minutes since he left, and instant adrenaline rushes through me to think that she might be headed back and he’s spotted her.
“Where are you putting it?” he asks.
“That’s why you’re calling me?”
“Yes.”
“Cole, if you wanted to know that, then you should have stayed.” I look around the living room for the most inconspicuous place.
“Don’t you feel just the slightest bit bad about this?”
“No. Why would I? It’s not like I’m damaging or stealing anything.”
“If you say so,” he drawls out, and then he hangs up on me.
I roll my eyes.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I find my interest switches from get in and get out to one of curiosity. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t researched her more, but it seems the more I learn about her, the more of a puzzle she is.
This doesn’t look like the home I would expect from a rich New York socialite. It doesn’t even look like a home I would expect from the wealthy Southern socialites I grew up with. It doesn’t look like the home of a world-famous pop star cellist, nor does it look like a home for a single person.
What does a house look like in all of these scenarios? I don’t know, but it’s not this. This house looks straight out of an upscale farmhouse magazine.
Stopping, I stare at the painting on the wall. The navy-blue couch is really the only thing that’s bright with color. It’s a painting of a garden. There are some vegetables, but there are a lot of flowers too. The sky is a pale shade of blue, and my heart twinges because I know that my mother would have loved this painting too.
Of course her personal belongings are lying around everywhere, but aside from the painting, what catches my eye is the cello lying across the couch and the music sheets haphazardly strewn across the table in front of it. Some are blank, and some have handwritten notes scratched onto the page.
Outside of the first night when I heard her playing the theme song for Indiana Jones, she’s played every night since then. Some are full pieces and others are broken up sections, and now I know why. She’s composing.
I’ve never known a musician, at least not one like this, who is a professional. Is it difficult to write music, or does it just come to her? Aside from her shrieking and, in general, being a pain in my ass and wondering what stunt she’s going to pull next, I do have a large amount of admiration and respect for her and her chosen profession. She may be a rich princess, but she’s not sitting around being lazy or pampered and spending exorbitant amounts of money. She’s got some drive and ambition that’s not normally found in girls of her class. Even my ex, when I think about her existence now, she was lazy and kind of a waste of space.
Moving from the living room, I walk into her kitchen and open her refrigerator. She’s got fruits, vegetables, eggs, bags of salad, a few Tupperware containers that look like leftovers, a hodgepodge of random things, and cans of sparkling water. Her counter is clean, but there’s a bowl of blackberries, and I can’t help but smirk.
“So she went back out there after all. Good for her.”
When I open her pantry, I find a bunch of regular stored items and four large boxes of Cheez-Its. I glance back toward the living room and find a box there as well.
My phone buzzes, and again, my heart jumps into my throat.
“Cole,” I answer.
“Are you still there?”
A wave of guilt passes by me as I remember why I’m here and that I definitely should not still be in her house snooping around.
“I’m almost done. Is she coming back?”
“No. Just curious, where did you hide it?”
