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I turn and give her what I hope is a friendly smile. “I’m looking for Kennedy.”
“She’s not here.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No.”
I nod toward Kennedy’s door. “I’ll just wait for her then,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
The old woman narrows her eyes at me. “Suit yourself, but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. If you cause any trouble, I’ll call 911. You hear me?”
Somehow, I manage to maintain a straight face. The old lady is about as intimidating as a newborn kitten. “Yes, ma’am,” I say respectfully.
I take a seat on the floor beside Kennedy’s door and try to make myself comfortable. I’m not going anywhere. The last time she left me, I didn’t go after her. My pride was bruised, and my feelings were hurt. I was angry at her, and so I made the conscious decision not to run after her—a decision I later regretted dearly. I expected her to come crawling back to me, but that never happened.
I realized soon after, in hindsight, that I should have gone after her, but it seemed too little, too late at that point. I did send her a few text messages and left her a hundred voicemails, but she never replied.
The only thing I had left of her was the brief note she left me:
I’m sorry, Connor. This isn’t going to work. It’s not your fault, it’s mine.
I check the time every few minutes, hoping she’ll return soon. My arse is growing numb. Every time I hear the downstairs door open, I hope it’s Kennedy returning home. But no such luck. After a while I start to worry. What if her neighbor called to warn her about the man lurking outside her apartment?
It’s an hour before I hear someone coming up the stairs. I spot Kennedy immediately as she turns the corner and heads this way with a grocery sack in each arm and her purse slung over her shoulder.
She was doing her shopping. The relief I feel is overwhelming.
As I jump to my feet, she spots me, and her eyes go wide. “Connor! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a plane to London?”
Chapter 18
Kennedy Takahashi
My heart pulse is racing triple time.He’s here.Butterflies careen around in my belly in sheer chaos at the sight of my unexpected visitor. He’s the last person I expected to see this afternoon. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a plane to London?”
Connor shoots to his feet and smooths his black trousers. Then he runs his fingers through his hair. “What do you think I’m doing here? I’m doing what I should have done the last time you left me. I’ve come after you.” His jaw tightens as he takes a step toward me. “You saw Angelica’s text, didn’t you? That’s why you left.”
My face burns. “Yes. I was in the kitchen getting a drink of water when I heard a phone chime. I thought it was my phone, so I picked it up. But it wasn’t mine. It was yours, and yes, I read a portion of her text, enough to get the gist of it. Enough to know that your family still doesn’t approve of me. I realized nothing has changed, Connor, so I left.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He stalks toward me and grabs hold of my upper arms. “I’m sorry you saw that text, but it doesn’t change a thing. I love you, and you love me, and that’s all that matters.”
“Your family—”
“To hell with them, Kennedy.” He takes the sacks of groceries from me. “Open your door. We really don’t need to have this conversation out in the corridor.” He nods to the door directly across the hall from mine and whispers, “The walls have ears.”
Apparently, he already met Mrs. Philbin. Smiling, I fish my key out of my purse and unlock my door and push it open. “Mrs. Philbin means well,” I say. “She’s taken it upon herself to watch out for me.”
Connor sets the grocery sacks on the tiny bit of countertop in my kitchen. “I’m glad your neighbors are looking out for you, but the woman threatened to call the police on me.”
“Her bark is worse than her bite,” I say, chuckling. Then my gaze goes to the clock on my stove. “You missed your connecting flight.”
He nods, not seeming to care in the least. “It would appear so.” He looks around my apartment, his gaze scanning the single room. Besides the corner kitchen and little round table with two chairs, there’s barely enough room for a small sofa and coffee table, an antique mahogany free-standing wardrobe, a small bookcase and reading chair in the corner by the room’s only window, and on the far side of the room is my double bed and nightstand.
The expression on his face is hard to read. “This is your flat?”
A knot forms in my stomach. I have no doubt my entire apartment would easily fit inside his bedroom in his London penthouse. “Yes.”
He eyes me doubtfully. “This is all of it? There’s nothing more to see, no secret rooms hidden behind a fake wall? Nothing more?”
