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Gideon walks the whole room as if he’s inspecting the quality of the materials and labor in the building. Amused, I prop a shoulder on the doorframe as he smooths a hand over the comforter.
“Is it safe?” He cuts a quick, fierce look at me that sucks up all the air in my lungs. The intensity in his gaze makes me want to squirm.
Is what safe? I want to ask.
Good grief, is he asking if the bed is safe? Like, is he thinking about banging away there and maybe the iron frame is going to break?
“What?” I sound snippy but decide I don’t care. He’s annoying me. He looks pretentious, the way he’s scrutinizing my place for bugs or faulty wiring or something. It’s not like he’s actually moving in. I’m not charging him rent, and he won’t be staying here long.
At least I hope not. His silence, the stillness, is getting a little creepy.
“The apartment complex.”
St. Louis is ranked fourth in a recent study of dangerous cities. It’s kind of like a checkerboard—patches of good, safe neighborhoods line right up against dangerous areas. Maybe you’re out with a friend for a drink at Pegasus, but you have to park a block or two down and whammy, you probably shouldn’t walk to your car alone when you leave the bar later.
“Actually, yes.” I straighten and lower my arms to my sides. “How’d you get in?”
The parking garage is gated. You need a key card to get in the main part of the building. Gideon should have had to buzz my apartment for me to come down and let him in.
“Followed a guy with a pizza box.”
Wow. That makes me feel safe.
“It’s a decent neighborhood,” I concede the point. If he got in that easily, someone else could too.
Why is he worried, though? He’s a big man, and the look he’s giving me at the moment is lethal.
“I have equipment,” he tells me as if that explains everything. He goes back to checking out the room, and I wonder what the heck that means. What kind of equipment? “Looks great,” he finally says as he turns back to look at me again. This look is expectant, like he’s waiting for me to do something. Does he think I’m going to go down and get his luggage? His equipment?
Embarrassed at the thought of hisequipment, I look away as heat floods my cheeks. I’m not interested in that equipment, not to mention he’s Chloe’s brother, which makes him feel like my brother. My pain-in-the-butt brother who doesn’t play well with others.
“Do you have a key?” He sounds exasperated, which makes me see red. How is this guy related to my favorite person in the world?
“Of course.”
Relieved to walk away—because I’m not interested in flirting or fighting with him—I hurry to the kitchen and pull my second key card from the drawer most people would refer to as a junk drawer. Only mine is sparsely populated and crazy neat. When I hand it to him, he’s looking at the drawer. Our eyes meet as he takes the card. He quirks an eyebrow at me but says nothing. Of course, he says nothing.
How on God’s green earth am I going to talk to Chloe about this when she calls to make sure he got here? I love her to death, but something tells me having her brother here is going to make me pull my hair out.
