actually don’t work at the restaurant with Stephen and Finn. Well, not anymore. I do prepare some desserts for them at their house for them to take to the restaurant, but I’m actually looking for another job.” Without hesitation—or waiting for Audrey to reply—she added pointedly, “Listen, can I come in?”
If the intrusion surprised or bothered Audrey, she didn’t show it. She just stepped aside and swept her hand toward the interior in invitation. “Sure. If you promise to forgive the mess.”
The mess turned out to be considerably tidier than Cecilia’s tidiest tidy. Certainly it was clear that the woman was still in the process of moving in, thanks to a couple of open boxes and a sparsity of furnishings. What furniture there was—a royal blue settee, two richly embroidered chairs to complement it, and an intricately carved secretary whose glass doors were thrown open to showcase a number of exuberant hats inside—was all as Victorian as the house and arranged with comfort in mind. Even the hats strewn seemingly carelessly about in display had the look of actually being carefully arranged. And the boxes were each labeled with its contents—HATS, they both read . . . gee, there was a shocker—in a neat and precise hand. The boxes clearly had been packed with great care.
When Cecilia had left San Francisco a year ago, she’d haphazardly dumped everything she owned into a couple of duffel bags and four nearly collapsed boxes she’d pulled from the Dumpster behind Vincent’s apartment building. She hadn’t cared at the time what went where or how much trouble they’d be to unpack later.
Of course, she’d had a very narrow window of time to escape from San Francisco and had wanted to be as far from Vincent’s penthouse as she could before he discovered she was gone. That had rather hindered any sort of plan-making, never mind organization. Not that that had helped her get away from Vincent’s penthouse before he discovered she was gone, anyway, since Dolan had caught her packing and locked her in the bedroom before calling Vincent and ratting her out. And then Vincent—
She shook the thought off almost literally before it could fully form. She’d done very well not thinking about Vincent Strayer for the past twelve months. So why was he suddenly crowding back into her brain today?
Oh, right. Great, looming, hulky shadows. The reason she’d come over to Audrey’s in the first place.
Before her neighbor had a chance to say anything, Cecilia got right to the point. “The reason I came over is because I was up in my apartment a few minutes ago, and I just happened to look out my bedroom window, which faces the third floor of your turret, and something caught my eye, and it looked like—”
She halted abruptly, not meaning to, but couldn’t quite get the words out. She wasn’t sure if it was because she feared Audrey would start to think she was nuts or because she feared she would start to think she was nuts. She tried again. “What I mean is, I was worried there might be someone in the house who shouldn’t be, and I wanted to check to be sure you’re okay. So . . . are you okay?”
Audrey’s eyes went wider the longer Cecilia spoke, and two bright spots of color that appeared on her cheeks grew redder. It was only then that Cecilia realized that what she’d worried might be someone in Audrey’s house was, in fact, someone in Audrey’s house. Like a man, maybe. Only he wasn’t there to do her harm. He was there at her invitation. That possibility had never occurred to Cecilia, since she’d forgotten what it was like to actually want a man around.
“Oh, jeez, I am so sorry,” she said. “I mean, I didn’t realize you were involved with someone. I mean, I should have realized you were involved with someone. I was just afraid that maybe that really was a break-in the other day after all, and maybe someone had broken in again, and I just wanted to be sure you were okay, and . . .
If the intrusion surprised or bothered Audrey, she didn’t show it. She just stepped aside and swept her hand toward the interior in invitation. “Sure. If you promise to forgive the mess.”
The mess turned out to be considerably tidier than Cecilia’s tidiest tidy. Certainly it was clear that the woman was still in the process of moving in, thanks to a couple of open boxes and a sparsity of furnishings. What furniture there was—a royal blue settee, two richly embroidered chairs to complement it, and an intricately carved secretary whose glass doors were thrown open to showcase a number of exuberant hats inside—was all as Victorian as the house and arranged with comfort in mind. Even the hats strewn seemingly carelessly about in display had the look of actually being carefully arranged. And the boxes were each labeled with its contents—HATS, they both read . . . gee, there was a shocker—in a neat and precise hand. The boxes clearly had been packed with great care.
When Cecilia had left San Francisco a year ago, she’d haphazardly dumped everything she owned into a couple of duffel bags and four nearly collapsed boxes she’d pulled from the Dumpster behind Vincent’s apartment building. She hadn’t cared at the time what went where or how much trouble they’d be to unpack later.
Of course, she’d had a very narrow window of time to escape from San Francisco and had wanted to be as far from Vincent’s penthouse as she could before he discovered she was gone. That had rather hindered any sort of plan-making, never mind organization. Not that that had helped her get away from Vincent’s penthouse before he discovered she was gone, anyway, since Dolan had caught her packing and locked her in the bedroom before calling Vincent and ratting her out. And then Vincent—
She shook the thought off almost literally before it could fully form. She’d done very well not thinking about Vincent Strayer for the past twelve months. So why was he suddenly crowding back into her brain today?
Oh, right. Great, looming, hulky shadows. The reason she’d come over to Audrey’s in the first place.
Before her neighbor had a chance to say anything, Cecilia got right to the point. “The reason I came over is because I was up in my apartment a few minutes ago, and I just happened to look out my bedroom window, which faces the third floor of your turret, and something caught my eye, and it looked like—”
She halted abruptly, not meaning to, but couldn’t quite get the words out. She wasn’t sure if it was because she feared Audrey would start to think she was nuts or because she feared she would start to think she was nuts. She tried again. “What I mean is, I was worried there might be someone in the house who shouldn’t be, and I wanted to check to be sure you’re okay. So . . . are you okay?”
Audrey’s eyes went wider the longer Cecilia spoke, and two bright spots of color that appeared on her cheeks grew redder. It was only then that Cecilia realized that what she’d worried might be someone in Audrey’s house was, in fact, someone in Audrey’s house. Like a man, maybe. Only he wasn’t there to do her harm. He was there at her invitation. That possibility had never occurred to Cecilia, since she’d forgotten what it was like to actually want a man around.
“Oh, jeez, I am so sorry,” she said. “I mean, I didn’t realize you were involved with someone. I mean, I should have realized you were involved with someone. I was just afraid that maybe that really was a break-in the other day after all, and maybe someone had broken in again, and I just wanted to be sure you were okay, and . . .
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