Chapter 7
seven
WILLOW
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
I stood in my apartment doorway, keys dangling from my fingers, watching water drip from my popcorn ceiling onto what used to be my couch. The carpet squelched under my sneakers. My bookshelf—my poor, overloaded bookshelf—had taken the brunt of it, paperbacks bloated and warped beyond recognition.
"No," I said to no one. "Nope. This isn't happening."
It was absolutely happening.
I waded through the mess, phone already pressed to my ear, listening to my super's voicemail click over for the third time. "Mr. Henley, it's Willow in 3B. There's water coming through my ceiling. A lot of water. Please call me back."
I hung up and surveyed the damage. The burst pipe appeared to be somewhere above me—4B's problem originally, but gravity had made it mine. My vintage velvet couch was ruined. Half my books were pulp. The sad little succulent on my coffee table had ironically drowned.
I called Mr. Henley again. Voicemail.
Called the building's emergency maintenance line. Disconnected.
Called my parents, then immediately hung up before it rang. I could already hear my mother's voice: Well, honey, if you lived somewhere nicer...
Mika was in Austin for a vintage clothing expo, probably elbow-deep in 1970s bell-bottoms and completely unreachable.
I stood in the middle of my ruined living room, wet socks seeping into what was left of my dignity, and did the only thing a rational adult could do.
I sat on my soggy couch and laughed until I almost cried.
My phone buzzed. Callum.
Confirming Friday. The Whitmore Gallery opening. 7pm.
Right. Our next performance. Another night of pretending we weren't tap-dancing on a land mine.
I typed back: Might need to reschedule. My apartment flooded. Currently living my best swamp creature life.
His response came fast: What happened?
Pipe burst. Super's MIA. I'm pretty sure my couch is developing gills.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Come here.
I stared at the screen. What?
My apartment. Until yours is habitable.
That's not necessary.
Where else are you going to stay?
I looked around at my waterlogged disaster of a home. Thought about the forty-minute drive to my parents' house and the inevitable interrogation that would follow. Thought about sleeping in my car, which, given the French fry situation, would be its own biohazard.
I'll figure it out.
Willow. Come here.
You can't just command me to—
I'm not commanding. I'm offering. There's a difference.
Is there?
Yes. Commanding would be: "Get in an Uber right now or I'm coming to get you myself."
That sounds exactly like commanding.
Then consider yourself commanded.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I could handle my own disasters without rescue from a man who probably had thread counts higher than my credit score.
But my socks were wet. My books were dead. And the thought of spending a night in Callum's space—seeing how he lived when no one was watching—was more tempting than I wanted to admit.
Fine. But I'm bringing my own pillow.
Whatever makes you comfortable.
I grabbed a bag, stuffed it with the few dry clothes I could salvage, and headed for the door. Paused. Went back for my pillow.
A girl had to have standards.
I'd been to Callum's building before—the fifteenth floor, where Hayes & Thornton occupied space that screamed "we charge a lot for our services." But that had been a business visit. Elevator to the office, intimidating receptionist, conference room energy.
This was different.
The doorman directed me to a separate elevator bank—residential, apparently—and gave my damp sneakers a look of barely concealed horror.
The lobby art I'd rushed past on my previous visit now seemed to judge me personally.
Everything about this building was designed to make people like me feel out of place.
"Fifteenth floor," the doorman said. "15A."
Same floor as his office. Of course. The man literally never left this building.
The elevator was mirrored, which meant I got to watch myself ascend in all my disaster glory. Messy bun escaping its elastic. Mascara smudged. T-shirt with a coffee stain I hadn't noticed until now. I looked like a raccoon that had wandered into a flood zone.
Fantastic.
The doors opened onto a hallway with exactly two apartments. I found 15A, knocked, and tried to arrange my face into an expression that didn't scream "my life is falling apart."
Callum opened the door in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt.
I'd never seen him in anything other than suits. The casualness of it—bare feet, hair slightly mussed, glasses I didn't know he wore—short-circuited my brain for a solid three seconds.
"You wear glasses," I said, which was not the greeting I'd planned.
"For reading." He stepped back to let me in. "You're soaked."
"Occupational hazard of living in a swamp." I walked past him, then stopped.
His apartment was... a lot.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Open floor plan with clean lines and expensive materials.
Everything in shades of gray and white and dark wood, arranged with the precision of a magazine spread.
The kitchen had one of those waterfall islands I'd only seen on HGTV.
The living area featured a sectional that probably cost more than my car.
It looked like a showroom. Or a very upscale hotel. Or the lair of a James Bond villain who appreciated minimalist design.
"This is aggressively clean," I said.
"Thank you?"
"I'm not sure it was a compliment." I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Do you actually live here? Or do you just come here to judge people who own throw pillows?"
"I have throw pillows."
"You have two throw pillows. Both gray. Both arranged at exactly the same angle." I pointed at them. "Those are decorative. They've never been thrown."
"Pillows don't need to be thrown to serve their purpose."
"That's literally why they're called throw pillows, Callum."
He almost smiled. Almost. "Guest room is down the hall. Bathroom's through there. Towels in the cabinet."
"You're not going to give me the full tour?"
"Would you like the full tour?"
"I'd like to know where you hide the evidence of being human. There's got to be a junk drawer somewhere. A pile of mail you haven't opened. A closet full of skeletons—literal or metaphorical, I'm not picky."
His mouth twitched. "I don't have a junk drawer."
"Everyone has a junk drawer."
"I have an organizational system."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." I dropped my bag on his pristine floor, enjoying the way his eye twitched at the disruption. "Okay, counter tour. I'm going to wander around your apartment and make observations. You can follow and be defensive."
"I'm not defensive."
"You're already defensive."
I didn't wait for a response. Just started walking, peering at his space with unabashed nosiness.
The kitchen was immaculate—not in a staged way, but in a "this man actually wipes down his counters after every use" way.
His refrigerator contained vegetables, protein, and exactly one condiment.
No magnets. No photos. No personality whatsoever.
"Your fridge is depressing," I called out.
"Are fridges supposed to spark joy?"
"Where's the leftover pizza? The questionable takeout containers? The jar of pickles that's been there so long it's basically a science experiment?"
"I meal prep."
"Of course you do."
I moved to the living area. Bookshelves lined one wall—architecture mostly, but I spotted novels tucked between the textbooks. Literary fiction, a few thrillers, one romance that he'd probably die before admitting to owning.
"You read romance," I said, pulling it from the shelf.
"That's not mine."
"It's in your apartment. On your shelf. With a bookmark in it." I flipped it open. "Chapter twelve. You're halfway through."
He appeared behind me, swiping the book from my hands. "It was a gift."
"From who?"
"None of your concern."
"Was it a girlfriend? An ex-girlfriend? A very optimistic one-night stand?"
"It was my daughter." He slid the book back into its place. "She said I needed to understand how normal people experience emotions."
"Elena recommended you a romance novel?"
"She has a strange sense of humor."
I filed that away. The relationship between Callum and his daughter seemed strained, but this—a book recommendation, a gentle ribbing—felt different. Warmer. I liked it. Made Callum seem less like a fashionable robot but an actual messy human behind all that matchy-matchy decor.
I kept exploring. Found a photo on a side table, half-hidden behind a lamp. Young Callum, less gray, less guarded, holding a toddler with dark curls and his exact same gray eyes. Elena, probably three or four. Both of them laughing.
I didn't mention it. Felt too private. But I noticed the way he'd positioned it—not displayed prominently, but not hidden either. A reminder he wasn't ready to let go of.
Then I saw the piano.
It sat in an alcove near the windows, a baby grand in glossy black, beautiful and intimidating. "You play?"
"I used to."
"This isn't a 'used to' piano. This is a 'still owns and keeps in pristine condition' piano."
"I don't play anymore."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer. I let the silence stretch, watching him not look at the piano with an intensity that said more than words would.
"Fine." I turned away from the instrument. "Keep your secrets. But just so you know, I'm judging you for letting a gorgeous instrument collect dust."
"I challenge you to find a single speck of dust on that piano," he returned with a subtle smile because he knew this place was pristine.
I finished my loop, ending back in the living area. "Verdict: your apartment is beautiful and soulless, you need more color and less organizational systems, and the piano thing is going to bother me until you explain it."