Chapter Nine
Izzy
There he is.
I paused in the break room doorway, suddenly nervous as I watched him press the button on the Keurig. I hadn’t seen Blake at work since last week, when I’d fallen in the hallway, and I wasn’t sure how he was going to act in a face-to-face scenario.
Because we’d been texting every day.
Nothing major, just a few random conversations here and there.
But never between Blake and Izzy.
No, those conversations belonged to Mr. Chest and Scooter’s Amy, two free-spirited people who happened to now be textual friends. AVP Blake and HR Izzy were definitely not those people.
“In or out?” Ben from IT said, pausing beside me. “Don’t get stuck between me and my caffeine, HR. It won’t go well.”
I smiled and went into the break room, forcing myself to only look at Ben and not the executive who was wearing a gorgeous blue suit with a stunning striped tie. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I didn’t peg you to be a coffee drinker,” he said as he wandered toward the side of the room where the bank of Keurig machines were lined up. “You seem like a tea person.”
“I feel insulted by that assumption, for some reason.” I was talking to Ben, and looking at Ben, but somehow hyperaware of the fact that Blake had noticed us. I don’t know how I knew, but I just felt it. “I’m all about the Red Bull, to be honest.”
I went over to the vending machine that had Red Bull in the third row, and held my debit card against the reader, my back to the side of the room where the coffee machines lived.
“What’s up, Blake?” I heard Ben say.
“Just getting my fix, you know,” Blake’s deep voice said, and I bit down on my bottom lip, refusing to turn around.
“Same, same,” Ben replied. “I’m surprised I made it this long.”
“It’s all up from here, right?” I heard Blake say, and I could hear that he was walking toward the door. I still didn’t turn around, and I let out my breath when I heard his footsteps exit the break room and head down the hallway.
Thank God.
Because I didn’t want to see Blake Phillips, AVP, and I definitely didn’t want to interact with him. I knew it was a little delusional, thinking I could keep this going without catching feelings, but I wasn’t ready to be realistic.
I just wanted to lean into the workaround for now, which meant the farther I stayed away from that VP, the better things would be with me and my texting buddy, Mr. Chest.
I knew we’d have to occasionally engage, but I didn’t want to do that anytime soon.
Blake
What a little prick.
I sat down behind my desk, irritated as hell by the way Ben had been looking at Izzy. She’d been focused on buying her energy drink, as she should, while that little prick had leered at her ass like it existed simply so he could stare at it.
What a prick.
I mean, was she ridiculously attractive and hard to look away from? Yes. Did the sound of her voice make you want to lean in and listen to everything she had to say? Absolutely.
But she wasn’t a piece of meat, for God’s sake.
And I was pretty sure he was married.
Not my problem , I told myself, opening the spreadsheet that needed my all-day attention. Work did its thing and sucked me in, and I managed not to think about her for the rest of the day.
But as soon as I got home, I found myself checking for messages from Scooter’s Amy.
And when I didn’t get any after thirty minutes, I sent one.
I just finished cleaning up cat vomit, in case you’re wondering how my night is going.
I felt restless after sending the text and sat down on the couch. I wasn’t sure if it had to do with seeing Izzy at work, not hearing from her since I’d gotten home, or the real-life reality that I’d just cleaned up four separate spots of disgusting cat vomit, but I felt like I needed to do something.
My phone buzzed.
Amy: Take solace in the fact that I am wildly jealous that you’re in your warm abode right now, cleaning up yack. That sounds heavenly.
I texted, Where are you right now?
Amy: Let’s just say I’m taking a walk.
I glanced at the wall of windows on the other side of my living room. In the rain?? In the dark??
Amy: It wasn’t my number one choice, but I’ll be home soon and will probably drown to death in the hot shower that I will refuse to ever leave.
Thunder rumbled, and I watched lightning flash through the sky. What the hell? She couldn’t be serious, could she? I messaged: Are you serious right now?
Amy: My car died, but I’m almost home.
Shit. Not only was it pouring, but it was kind of a violent electrical storm.
I texted, Why didn’t you call someone? Or an Uber??
I tried wrapping my mind around the idea that she was walking in the loud storm at that very minute.
Amy: I called an Uber, but the first one cxld and the second one was going to take too long. I thought walking would be faster.
I stared at the phone in my hand, unable to even understand what she’d been thinking. I texted, How close are you?
Amy: I’ll be home in twenty.
Twenty minutes? I grabbed my keys off the coffee table and stood.
I texted, Drop me your location.
Amy: I’m fine.
I went into the hall and grabbed some towels from the linen closet and a hoodie from the dryer. I’m headed that way already so it’s NBD. Just drop me your location.
Amy: AVP Blake cannot give me a ride. I’m almost there so no worries. Thanks, tho.
I don’t know why, but my stress was through the roof as I pictured her out in the storm, all alone. I texted, Mr. Chest is going for a drive, not Blake. Tell me where you are.
After the longest thirty seconds of my life, she texted back.
Amy: You know that Burger King that’s right off the interstate on Dodge?
Me: You’re at the BK?
Amy: I should be there in ten minutes.
Me: Where are you this second?
Amy: Walking on the side of the interstate, somewhere between the Dinker’s exit and Dodge.
I wasn’t sure where she lived, but that BK wasn’t too far from my place.
As soon as I pulled out of my parking garage, it was impossible to see through the deluge, even with my wipers on high. I couldn’t believe she was walking in that. Why hadn’t she called someone? I squinted when I got close to where she said she was, slowing and trying to see a person through the rain and the darkness.
And then I saw her.
It was exactly like she’d said.
She was walking on the side of the interstate, a dark, huddled figure barely visible on the freeway shoulder. I threw on my hazards and slowed, rolling down my window so she could see it was me and not some creeper as I stopped beside her.
“It’s me—get in!” I yelled.
I couldn’t see her face through the rain, but she must’ve seen all she needed, because she ran to my car. She threw open the passenger door and looked ready to jump inside, when she stopped short. She looked down at the seat and said, “I’m soaked. I don’t want to ruin your leather seats.”
“Get in,” I bit out, wanting to grab her arm and jerk her into the dry car. “They’ll be fine.”
She got in and slammed the door, and as she sat, I saw just how drenched she was. Her hair was dripping and her clothes were saturated and her face was wet as she wiped it with wet hands. She was shaking—her body was literally racked with tremors—and I reached between the seats and grabbed a towel.
“Oh, my God, I love you so much,” she breathed, taking the towel and rubbing it over her head before just wrapping it around her like it was a blanket. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” I said, wishing she’d stop shivering so violently. “I brought a dry hoodie, too.”
“I’m fine,” she said around chattering teeth. “My apartment is on Fiftieth and Sullivan.”
I put the car in gear and pulled onto the road, distracted by the way she was shivering. So much so that I said, “You’re soaked to the bone. You should take off your wet shirt and put on the hoodie.”
I expected a smart-ass comment, but she was clearly in the throes of hypothermia, because all she said was “Keep your eyes on the road or I’ll kick your ass, Chest.”
“You got it,” I said, merging into the other lane. I cranked up the heat, ignoring the shirt removal that was going on in my periphery. Obviously she was so cold she no longer cared about privacy, because she wasn’t even trying to duck down or hide herself from other vehicles’ lines of sight. Not that anyone could see anything, between the darkness and the downpour.
“Turn at the light,” she said, pulling the hoodie over her head. “And then take your first right, onto Price Avenue.”
“Got it,” I said, hitting my turn signal as I slowed for the turn.
“My building is the redbrick fourplex, way down on the corner; it’s about a block.” She pulled her hair out of the hoodie and leaned forward to hold her hands up to the dashboard vent. “I didn’t want you to come, but I’m so incredibly happy that you did.”
“Why didn’t you call someone?” I asked. “I can’t believe you didn’t just sit in your dry car and wait for help.”
“I tried my cousin and he didn’t answer,” she said, putting her face scant centimeters from the vent. “And I wasn’t that far from home.”
“Not that far?” It was unfathomable that she’d been strolling alongside the interstate, where anyone could’ve run her down. “It would’ve taken you forty-five more minutes to get home, if you didn’t get hit or struck by lightning first.”
“Hey. You’re not allowed to scold me unless you know my middle name.” There was a teasing in her voice. “Since you don’t, Mr. Chest from Scooter’s, you should—”
“Clarence.”
I heard her gasp, and she was smiling with her mouth wide open when I glanced over. “I forgot that you know that.”
“This it?” I asked, pulling to a stop in front of an apartment building. It looked old but well maintained, surrounded by a lot of tall trees, and for some reason, I could picture her living there.
“Yes.” She reached for the car door with shaking hands. “Thank you so much for coming to get me.”
“No problem.”
“Do you want to come in for a slice of the hot pizza I will be ordering the minute my fingers thaw?”
No. NO. Of course no, the only answer was no. I put the car in first and yanked up the parking brake. “I’ll order while you drown in the hot shower. Deal?”
“Deal so hard,” she replied, sounding pleased with my idiotic answer.
What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing?
We ran for the door, which was probably a moot point since she was already drenched, but it didn’t seem to matter to us. And when we got to her stoop, I took the keys from her shaking fingers and unlocked the building door for her.
“Okay,” she said, the dim light of the entryway seeming ridiculously bright after so much darkness. She looked up at me, her wet face streaked with mascara, and said, “Don’t judge me for my furnishings.”
“I would never.”
“You say that now,” she said, opening the door to her unit, which was clearly unlocked, “but wait until you see it.”
When she pushed in the door, it was like walking into someone’s grandmother’s apartment. She had a pink sofa, two matching pink-and-gold-velvet side chairs, and a huge painting of a garden scene hung on the wall behind the couch. Crochet doilies sat on both end tables, and I was surprised to see a normal TV on the other side of the room, as opposed to some huge console with old-school rabbit ears.
“You’re into retro,” I said, looking around at the interesting turn-of-the-century decor.
“You’re kidding, right?” She dropped the towel on one of the chairs and turned on a floor lamp. “When I moved in here, my grandma surprised me by furnishing the entire place for me; it was her gift.”
“Oh, God.”
“Right?” She crossed her arms, looking tiny in my XL Bears hoodie, and said, “I’ll tell you the whole story after I shower. Remote’s on the coffee table, beer is in the fridge, and my credit card is in my purse if you want to order the pizza.”
“I’ve got it.” Did she usually make a habit of keeping her front door unlocked and letting strangers rifle through her purse? “Go shower.”
“God bless you,” she said, and then she disappeared down the hallway and into the back of the apartment.
“What toppings?” I yelled.
“Anything but pineapple.”
“Combo?”
“Yes, please, but no mushrooms.”
What am I doing?
I placed the pizza order while I turned on a football game, and I heard the shower start as I walked into her kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge.
How can someone function with only condiments, chocolate milk, diet soda, and beer in their refrigerator?
I was about to sit back down on the sofa, when a guy walked through the front door. A guy with a bushy beard, Adidas joggers, no shirt, and no shoes.
He stopped short, looking surprised to see me.
Same, bro.
Then his eyes went down to my beer, and he said, “You drinkin’ my beer?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the guy laughed and said, “Just messin’. Where’s Iz?”
“Shower,” I said slowly, having no idea how to respond, because I didn’t know who this guy was to her and what he was doing there.
“Good—I need to steal a few things. Don’t tell.”
I watched as the guy went into the kitchen, grabbed three beers and an unopened bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and then turned and headed for the door.
“Is she okay with this?” I asked, feeling like I should step in or something.
“Yeah, she owes me,” the guy said, smiling like it was no big deal. “Tell her the Darkling puked on my bed today, so I’m collecting.”
“And you are…?”
“Oh, my God, clearly an asshole,” he said, and shifted the stolen items to his left hand. He extended his right and said, “I’m Josh, her cousin. I live upstairs.”
“Blake,” I said, hating the relief I felt that the guy who was clearly very familiar with Izzy was family and not something more complicated. “Her car broke down on the interstate—”
“That explains the missed calls.” Josh shook his head. “And I told her, after her starter caught on fire, that she needed to get a new car before she got stranded. But you know how she is.”
I actually had no idea.
“Maybe now she’ll listen,” he said.
And I just said, “Maybe,” in agreement, because what else could I possibly say?
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Josh said, then added, “Hey, will you come grab the cat?”
Am I in an episode of The Twilight Zone ? I got up and followed the guy out of her apartment and up the stairs, moving out of pure curiosity. And even though he’d asked me to “grab the cat,” I almost laughed when the guy shoved an asshole cat at me (the asshole scaled my chest with all of his claws) because the entire situation was so…unusual.
By the time she (I still couldn’t think of her as Izzy or Amy, so she was simply “she” at that point) returned to the living room, the cat was purring on my lap.
She stopped, looking at me with her eyebrows crinkled together. “The Darkling is sitting on your lap.”
“Why does that conjure the unfortunate image of Ben Barnes reclining on my thighs?”
She smiled. “But he hates everyone—even me, half the time.”
I wasn’t sure how she managed to look hot with wet hair while wearing sweats and fuzzy socks, but she just did. Maybe it was because she just looked so…at home, like she was freshly showered and ready to settle in for the night.
What the hell is wrong with me, thinking idiotic thoughts like that?
“Josh said you owe him because this guy puked on his couch.”
“That mooching dick.” She shook her head and said, “If Josh didn’t feed him sushi all the time, he wouldn’t puke. Did he take my beer?”
“Only a couple. Does he babysit the cat for you or something?” I asked.
The door buzzer sounded, and she held up a finger. “I’ll tell you the whole story of this building after I get that.”
“The tip’s already been charged to my card, so we’re good, by the way.”
“Okay, thanks.” She opened the apartment door and went out to the stoop to meet the pizza guy. I heard her say, “Hey, Austin,” and I was somehow unsurprised when the delivery driver launched into conversation like they were lifelong friends.
I had no idea why her unorthodox everything was charming the hell out of me. Shouldn’t I have been annoyed, or at least marginally put off, by half-dressed wandering cousins and antique store apartments? Why did those things just make me want to learn every little thing about her?
It didn’t matter.
I needed to knock that shit off and get out of there. I’d given her a ride to be nice, but nothing good could come from hanging out at Isabella Shay’s apartment. I was going to get in my car and forget that I even knew where she lived.
Just as soon as we finished the pizza.