Chapter 12
OWEN
I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist. It feels about as luxurious as the nine-billion-count sheets on George Knight’s bed, reminding me again how out of my element I am.
At least the shower woke me up some. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself today.
Or for the rest of my “vacation” for that matter.
Probably ought to call Zoe first. I figure we can meet up for lunch and then maybe I’ll…
Christ, I have no idea. I’m not a city guy.
That ought to be clear to Zoe from the way I moved to a freaking cabin in the woods instead of sticking around Boston like the rest of our family or moving to New York like her.
But no, somehow she’s convinced this is just what I need. And when Zoe gets an idea into her head—
My phone, still sitting on the nightstand back in the adjoining bedroom, rings out loudly with an incoming call.
“Hey, Zo,” I say as I sink down on the bed.
“Hey, cuz. Sleep good? George and I went shopping for linens for him together, so I happen to know he has some really nice sheets…”
There’s a playful hint of innuendo in her voice, despite George himself being several hundred miles away, and this being entirely a platonic real estate arrangement. But the comment does make me realize I am sitting wet and wrapped in nothing but a towel on those fine linens. I jump up.
“Fine. I slept fine. Except for all the traffic. And the sirens. And the occasional random person yelling in the street at two in the morning.”
“Aw, poor baby. I know the city’s not your thing, but I am selfishly glad to have you here. I miss you, you know.”
I feel some of the tension in my shoulders soften.
I miss her too. We were best friends growing up.
And since Uncle Max died, Zo is the only person in my family who simply accepts me for who I am.
No judgement. No passive-aggressive attempts to change me.
Okay, she does have a tendency to think she knows what’s best and to insert herself into my business accordingly—this entire housing swap thing is case-in-point.
But I love her, and we really don’t get to spend much time together these days, especially since I inherited the cabin and moved to Moonlake Village.
“So you want to meet up for lunch?”
“Didn’t you get my note?”
“No. I found one from George—” it still feels wrong to call him that, but I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to call him—”But I didn’t see one from you.”
“In the kitchen. Anyway, I’m on a deadline. Have to submit a piece by end of day. But I left you a list.”
“A list?” I’m back in the kitchen now, looking around.
“Yeah, you know. Things to do around the city. I’ll catch up with you later, but the list ought to keep you busy until then.”
I spot an envelope with my name on it leaning against a mug in the shadow of the monstrosity of a coffee machine. No wonder I hadn’t noticed it. I open it up and look at it. Good God. It looks like a full itinerary for a week-long vacation.
“Now, I want you to promise to do everything on that list.”
“Zoe—”
“Ah, ah… Owen Wilde, I did not bring you to the city so you could sit admiring George’s walls all day.”
I look up at the walls. They have some excellent crown molding on them, actually. I don’t think Zoe would take kindly to me saying so, though.
“Zoe, this list is—”
“Just what you need. Promise me.”
I have two problems now. Zoe is definitely not leaving me alone until I promise. And I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.
Oh, and she knows it. So three problems, maybe. Or really just one…
“Fine.” I groan at last. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can ask!” I can practically hear her grinning through the phone. “Talk to you later, darling! I expect a full report.”
She hangs up, leaving me wet and naked in a stranger’s apartment with a mile-long to-do list and absolutely no desire to do any of it. Great. Well, I’m not obsessing about Beau at the moment, I’ll give her that.
A little while later, I’ve gotten dressed, read over the list, and scrounged up what breakfast I could in the form of some leftover Chinese in the fridge (Knight wasn’t kidding about the pickings being slim).
I really ought to start tackling Zoe’s list. I’m pretty sure she isn’t kidding about expecting a report.
She means well, but it’s going to be a long “vacation” at this rate.
Not feeling quite ready to face the first item on the list, I find myself poking around the apartment, exploring my temporary home.
It isn’t a huge place, maybe twice the size of my tiny cabin—though by New York standards I understand that to be pretty damn spacious—and it’s neatly decorated, but spare.
The living room has a leather sofa and chairs, a TV, some art on the walls, a sideboard, and even a plant in the corner.
No holiday decorations, I note. I guess George isn’t a big Christmas guy.
The bedroom, as I’ve already noted, is even more sparse.
A low dresser, a bed, a single nightstand.
The place feels empty. And while I don’t feel right speculating, I can’t help but think it looks like someone has taken out half the stuff and no one has bothered to fill in the space left behind.
I’m uncomfortably aware of the very public breakup between Knight and Luca Santoro.
It isn’t like Knight has kept literal space open for him – there isn’t half an empty closet or a faded square on the wall where a photo used to hang.
Instead, it’s more like there isn’t quite enough to make the rooms feel fully lived in… It’s lonely, I guess.
In the hall, a door to what must be another bedroom sits slightly ajar. Maybe I shouldn’t—I do sort of feel like I’m intruding—but that’s silly, isn’t it? We agreed to swap, and we spelled out that means full use of each other’s homes as long as personal effects are left alone. And I’m curious.
As soon as I poke my head in, I realize this is the heart of the home. It’s smaller than the bedroom, an office, or maybe more of a library—a little of both—and clearly where George Knight writes his books.
Maybe I should leave it alone.
Except… I don’t want to leave it alone.
So I step inside, keeping my footsteps light as if I’m walking on some sort of hallowed ground.
The desk is gorgeous, antique and worn around the edges in a way that I would never dare touch; it gives it too much character.
It looks like it belongs in a movie from the ‘30s.
Maybe in a newsroom with an old-fashioned typewriter sitting on top of it.
For a moment, I imagine George Knight grainy and black-and-white and tapping away.
So this is where a great mind works. It’s completely different from how I would’ve imagined it. I’d have guessed the author of the sexy, high-tech Sebastian Steele novels would’ve had a workspace to match. But this room is cozy and warm and pleasant.
Light streams in through the windows, casting an angle of sunshine across a faded oriental rug.
There’s an armchair in the corner, looking cushy and inviting with an ottoman in front and a little table and a reading lamp beside it.
And all along the wall—books. Floor-to-ceiling shelving in rich wood, complete with a rolling ladder to reach the upper shelves, and absolutely packed full.
I wander over to the shelves, running a hand over the smooth mahogany, and peruse the titles. He has everything you’d expect and some things you might not. Classics and best sellers… reference and craft books… everything Ian Fleming has ever written.
There are a couple shelves filled with nothing but the Sebastian Steele novels, multiple copies of each one. Which seems weird and a little self-absorbed until I pull one out and discover they are all signed, presumably waiting to be sent out to adoring fans.
There are several shelves of competitors’ books, other contemporary spy novels, police procedurals, crime thrillers. I take out a copy of a recent book in a popular series and discover the margins are full of what must be George Knight’s own notes.
Genius use of the clock tower here!
Really? That’s the red herring? Saw this 10 miles off.
OMFG not another one-night stand with a double agent — this is so worn.
Dammit was going to use this same device in next Steele book.
Use of British spelling super pretentious. Cannot believe they are making a movie out of this thing.
They go on like that, hilarious and strangely endearing, but suddenly reading them feels a little too invasive, and I quickly put it back.
(I cannot help briefly opening a few of its neighbors, though, and yes, it does appear that Knight has jotted notes in all of them.)
There’s also a shelf with magazines arranged neatly in holders.
A New Yorker Knight had a short story in.
A Vanity Fair from when the first Sebastian Steele movie came out and the book topped the bestseller lists all over again.
Various interviews and profiles. And then a few others which feature Knight alongside Luca Santoro, mostly articles painting them as a power couple, because, of course, that’s what they were.
The bestselling author and the daring foreign correspondent.
Looking at the pictures of them makes me feel uneasy. Their breakup was so public, even a hermit like me couldn’t avoid all those headlines. And of course, you can’t help but follow prominent gay couples when you have a vested interest in public acceptance and normalizing of LGBTQ+ relationships.
I study the picture accompanying one of the articles, dated about a year before Santoro famously broke things off. Is it possible to tell from the photo they wouldn’t last?
I look closely. Santoro looks perfect and happy, but it seems to me there’s a little awkwardness, a little discomfort in George’s expression. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Still, I can’t shake the feeling they don’t seem quite right together.
It occurs to me I’ll be going to Santoro’s wedding in a little over a week, and suddenly, given that I’m staying at Knight’s apartment, that feels strangely disloyal.
Which doesn’t make any sense, of course. But it’s like I’ve been dropped into the middle of the guy’s life. I put the magazine back and pull out the next one—which turns out to be the famous Time Magazine cover.
I’ve seen it before, of course. I stop now to study George Knight, lit dramatically from the side and posed in a writerly tweed jacket, a wry half-smile playing over his features.
Damn, he really is handsome. Not in an in-your-face, put-him-on-TV way like Santoro, but in a secret, understated, endearing way somehow.
Tousled dark curls, just a tad too long, wire-frame glasses setting off thoughtful brown eyes, the scruffy beard he had at the time looking genuinely incidental, not carefully cultivated, like so many guys seem to do.
There is something genuine and unassuming about the guy in the picture, bestselling book series be damned.
The shot is excellent in making you feel like you know him.
Right. Of course, I don’t know him. I’m just… Occupying the man’s space. Temporarily. And I probably ought to stop looking through his things. I need to get to Zoe’s list anyway.
But just as I’m leaving, something catches my eye.
A couple shelves of colorful spines, almost hidden behind the armchair in the corner.
I go to look at them and discover it’s a collection of well-worn paperbacks, and they are all, it seems, romance.
I pull one out to look at it—a cartoon cover I think I might recognize as having been on the Moonlake Village library’s “featured” table recently, its title a clever pun.
The one next to it looks to be set a couple centuries ago, the cover graced with a dramatically posed couple in elegant dress.
I flip through the pages and discover Knight has made notes in these, too.
But here his comments are less critical and more…
Cannot wait to see what happens when he finds out her secret!
???
Swoon.
OMG, the bubble bath scene!!!
They are all like that. Instead of reading like critique, these notes feel personal and charming, and—and very much like I shouldn’t be reading them.
I hastily shove the books back onto the shelf and go to grab Zoe’s list.