Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Archer
I remember one of my father’s wives—the second or third?—reading to me exactly one time, and it just so happened to be The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe .
After much begging on my part, she kicked off her heels with a heavy sigh and climbed into bed beside me. Her perfume made my eyes water, and the sequins on her dress dug into the bare skin of my arms, but I didn’t dare complain. Having anyone but a nanny pay attention to me was a rarity.
In a somewhat bored tone, she read about half a chapter before my father called her name from downstairs. She scrambled away like she’d been caught, grabbing her heels and leaving the book face down on the floor.
I rescued it, reading for hours until I understood that Edmund—the character I most related to, perhaps because he also didn’t seem to fit—turned into the bad guy. With my stomach feeling sour, I tiptoed downstairs, where the night nanny was drinking wine and watching television, and stuffed the book into the bottom of the kitchen trash.
Now, it’s as though this woman with the wild blond hair and big blue eyes has metaphorically plucked the book out from under the empty wine bottle and coffee grounds and tried to shove it back in my hands.
A portal closet in the new building I own? Absolutely not.
I have filled my quota of magical talk for today—and beyond—with Galentine. She would probably be clapping her hands with glee and citing this as an answer to her earlier mutterings.
Not on my watch.
“Look, Willow?—”
“Willa,” she interrupts.
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“No, you said Willow . Like the tree. I’m Willa like … well, like me.”
She brushes a strand of blond hair out of her face. Her hair looks unruly, like it’s rebelling and plans to fall out of its ponytail and down around her shoulders any moment, just to prove a point.
“Right. Well, I don’t know why you feel the need to lie?—”
“I’m not lying,” she says.
I pause. A long, dramatic one.
She crosses her arms, all traces of vulnerability gone from her flaming blue irises. The third time I’ve made direct eye contact. I pull out my tin of mints, this time crushing two between my teeth. The strong ginger makes my eyes burn.
“So, you want me to believe that you were in your closet somewhere in this building?—”
“Second floor,” she supplies.
“Okay. So, you walked into your closet on the second floor. And then you found yourself here, in my closet, which is on the fourth floor?”
“Yes.”
I pause again, giving her plenty of time to hear how absurd this sounds and come up with some other kind of explanation. Or perhaps come clean and tell me the truth.
“Unexplained things can happen. They do happen,” she says, but she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself—and failing. Then she straightens and snaps her finger. “What’s the branch of science dealing with wormholes?”
“I believe that’s science fiction .”
“This isn’t fiction. It happened,” she insists, sounding more firm now. “I may not be able to explain the physics of how , but it did.” She glares. “And I’m not crazy.”
“I would never presume to diagnose someone else’s mental health issues for them.”
“I don’t have mental health issues. Not that there should be a stigma against anyone who does,” she adds quickly. “But my mental health has nothing to do with… this.” She gestures to the closet behind her.
“Again, I’m not jumping to any conclusions or making a judgment” —I absolutely am— “but I simply need you to consider the plausibility of what you’re saying.” I use the most reasonable tone I can muster for this absurd conversation. “Put yourself in my shoes.”
She glances down at my Tom Ford oxfords. “From the look of it, I couldn’t afford your shoes.”
I pointedly stare at her bare feet. Then rip my gaze away when it starts to move up her likewise bare legs. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice the moment she stood up, but she appears to be wearing some kind of silky blue pajama set. With very short shorts.
Why are we having this discussion, anyway?
What I need is to get this Willow person out of my apartment and my personal space. And then to change the locks.
“In case you’re worried, I’m not going to press charges,” I tell her, gesturing toward the bedroom door, hoping she’ll take the hint and walk through it.
She doesn’t. Her eyes narrow. “Press charges for what? ”
“Breaking and entering. Trespassing.”
I could also see her earning a resisting arrest charge. As I watch her boil like a kettle, I get the sense that she wouldn’t go quietly. I can almost picture it.
“What are you smiling about?” she demands.
Am I smiling? I regain control of my features.
“Nothing. The point is—I’m not going to involve the authorities. But I would like you to leave.”
She throws up her hands. “But we don’t even know what happened!”
This absurd statement needs no response. There is no we . We are not a mystery-solving team. And I’m less interested in science fiction theories and more interested in finding a locksmith with availability … now.
The best explanation for Willow appearing in my closet is that Galentine gave out copies of her key. It would certainly fit with her bleeding-heart sentimentality toward this building and its residents.
Though if this Willow woman did use a key to enter and then forgot how she got here, she has bigger problems to worry about.
Because she seems very sincere and coherent.
But that’s not my problem.
“Perhaps an MRI might be a good place to look for answers?” I suggest mildly.
Willow gasps. “I told you I’m not crazy!”
“An MRI would be to detect whether there might be anomalies causing atypical brain function. The kind that might result in memory loss or confusion.”
“You think I’m in your apartment because I have a brain tumor ?” Her hands ball into fists and she blinks rapidly, looking both furious and like she’s about to burst into tears.
“I’m just seeking more rational explanations than you magically or science-fictionally portaling your way into my closet from yours. I don’t think you’re here because of—how did you put it?— wormholes .”
I turn on my heel and stride out of the bedroom and toward the front door. The air is starting to feel thin, and the tightness in my chest from earlier has returned.
Thankfully, Willow follows me out of the room, scurrying to catch up.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” she asks.
“No.” The sooner I get her out of my space and forget how distracting her blue eyes are, the better.
“This could be newsworthy.”
“Definitely not.” The last thing I need is rumors spreading about The Serendipity’s delusional tenants. Or magical wormhole closets in the building.
She scoffs. “Clearly, no matter what I say, you won’t believe me.”
“What’s more believable—that you literally defied the basic laws of physics to transport two floors, or …” I trail off.
“Go on. Or what? ”
“Or … that you had some kind of blackout or have memory loss or wandered up here sleepwalking?—”
“I do not sleepwalk.”
“Narcolepsy?”
“I don’t suffer from narcolepsy!”
The other options are worse. But she doesn’t look like she’s on any kind of substance. Her blue eyes are too clear, too lucid, too?—
I catch my errant thoughts and halt them in place.
If there is no other medical explanation, we’re left with lying. Which is, to me, the worst option of all. And, considering how she’s doubling down on her story, the most likely.
“Whatever the case, I think it’s time for you to go.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and I clutch the doorknob leading out into the hall like it is the last shred of my good sense.
Still, something keeps me from actually opening the door.
Maybe it’s watching Willow, who seems to be vacillating between self-righteous anger and what she finally slips into—resigned defeat.
But then she takes a step closer, and before I can back away, she brushes her fingers against my hand. The touch ignites something—not a spark or flame but a shock of cold, crackling up my arm like electric frost. I’m frozen, my eyes locked on hers.
“What if it happens again?” she whispers.
I don’t like the slump of her shoulders and the vulnerable look in her eyes—the same one she had when I threw open my closet door a few minutes ago.
I prefer her fiery anger.
Not that I should prefer any version of this woman—only the version that is out of my apartment and banished from my memory.
But something about her fingertips on my hand, something about the rawness in her voice and the pleading look in her blue eyes, has protectiveness rising up in me. Willow seems to remember she’s still touching me and drops her hand, blinking and stepping back.
I swing open the door and step back, allowing her space to exit. “I don’t think we need to worry about it happening again.”
Her fire returns. Throwing me one last glare, Willow stomps out of my apartment and toward the grand staircase. I step into the hallway, needing to be sure she goes.
Not because I want to watch her walk away.
“It was so lovely to meet you,” she calls over her shoulder in a tone generally reserved for people who club baby seals. “I guess the rumors weren’t far-off after all.”
Rumors? I wonder what she or any other residents could possibly have heard about me. And from whom? The back of my neck heats.
As Willow reaches the top step, a familiar face appears on the stairwell, climbing up. I groan. Oh, the timing .
Bellamy presses himself against the wall to avoid being flattened as Willow stomps past him. His manicured white eyebrows shoot up as he looks from Willow—specifically her bare legs—and back to me. His grin is infuriating.
“Good evening,” he says cheerfully.
Willow grumbles a response but does not pause, her blond head disappearing from view as Bellamy crests the top of the stairs. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, in a gray tailored suit, his white hair slicked back and his grin wide and highly amused. Though he’ll turn fifty-nine this year, I swear, he possesses a youthful energy I’ve never had.
“Looks like I missed more than the grand tour,” he says.
“It was nothing,” I mutter.
“Sure.” He glances back toward the stairs, still smiling. “Already making friends, I see.”
“Hardly.”
“Making enemies?” he suggests as he waltzes into my apartment.
A surprisingly clear mental image of Willow glaring pops up, and I shake my head to clear it. “Enemies would be more accurate.”
I close the door, double-checking the lock and making a mental note to call a locksmith tomorrow.
Bellamy’s assessing gaze turns appreciative, and he lets out a low whistle. “The pictures didn’t do it justice. This building is gorgeous,” he says, then turns away from the windows. It’s now dark, the winking lights of the city offering a comforting view, reminding me of New York. Only … far less bright and noisy.
“The architecture, the details—all of it. And I’m sad I missed out on all the fun.”
My closing of the door is more of a slam. “I wouldn’t call my interaction with that woman—or the guided tour Galentine Valencia gave me—fun.”
I pause by the large marble island, gripping the edge so tightly, my fingers start to tingle. It takes some effort to slow my breathing, and spots dance across my vision, even after I close my eyes. Now, against my dark lids, they’re more like sparks. Tension coils in my chest.
A gentle hand falls between my shoulder blades. “I’m sorry I was delayed,” Bellamy says quietly.
Almost instantly, his voice soothes me. Just the way it always has, from the very first time he found me like this when I was a young boy and he was my father’s assistant, sent to find out why I wasn’t dressed for some event I was being forced to attend. Bellamy had been on the verge of being fired, though neither of us knew that then. The fact that he had been sent looking for me should have been an indication of how things were going for him. I was always lowest on my father’s priority list.
When Bellamy found me sitting in an empty bathtub, he took the time to help calm me down. Which turned out, in some ways, to save us both. My father didn’t fire him, but did give him a new title: my assistant. It was more like glorified nanny, and I’m not sure why Bellamy didn’t take the insult and quit.
But he stayed. He moved from being more of a glorified babysitter to an actual executive assistant and now is the acting CEO of Archway Investments. I’m very involved, but Bellamy runs the day-to-day and lets me pass off a lot of the things I don’t want to do. Like dealing with people.
“I get more done and learn more from people when they think of me as an assistant,” he liked to say. I think he misses it now that he’s CEO. It’s a little harder to joke about. “You can call me your executive assassin . Without all the murder, of course.”
I take a slow breath and open my eyes, nodding my thanks to Bellamy, who steps back.
“It’s fine.”
“ You are fine, Archer,” he corrects. “But I wish I’d been here. I know it wasn’t ideal, and I truly am sorry.”
He does know. Probably the only person in the world who knows.
“It’s fine,” I repeat, the words a little more true now than when I said them a moment ago.
I straighten and find a bottle of water on the counter. I didn’t see him pull one out of the otherwise empty fridge, but he must have. He’s resourceful like that. Uncapping the bottle, I swallow most of it down in a few quick gulps.
“I’m also sorry your furniture did not arrive today. I’d hoped for a smoother transition for you all around, though it is nice to see the bones of this place.” Bellamy glances around again. “Truly remarkable. I can see why you took an interest.”
“If only the building came with less people,” I mutter, setting the nearly empty bottle back down.
Bellamy turns back with a smile, but before he can utter whatever remark is on his tongue, there’s a knock.
I know it’s Willow again before Bellamy even opens the door—there’s something irritating in the rap of knuckles against wood.
“Hello again,” Bellamy says, grinning.
Willow’s gaze flicks to me. “Um, hello.”
“I’m Bellamy. You can call me Bellamy. Or Bell. I also answer to Alfred.”
I groan. “That’s not your name. Stop telling people that. You’re not my assistant anymore and were never my butler.”
“It might as well be.” Bellamy leans toward Willow and, in a stage whisper, says “It’s a long-running joke, though an apt one. I’m the Alfred to his reclusive and eccentric billionaire Bruce Wayne.”
“Billionaire?” Her eyes widen, and now I really want to toss Bellamy from the rooftop.
“He doesn’t like to talk about his money,” Bellamy whispers dramatically.
“O-kay…” Willow looks between us again, and her hair—finally—comes tumbling down. She quickly twists it up again, securing it with a hair tie from her wrist without bothering to look for the one that must have fallen out.
“This is Willow,” I say.
She glares. “It’s Will a . With an A.”
Willow’s—Will a’ s—voice is icy. Deservedly so.
I hate that I forgot. Again. Names are simple. But names are one thing that do not stick in my brain, especially when meeting people for the first time or if I’m in a new or uncomfortable situation.
There’s a pause, probably one in which I could easily fit an apology, but my throat feels too tight to speak.
“I’m sorry, Willa,” Bellamy says cheerfully, perhaps sensing my vocal freeze. “Can we help you with something? Did you, perhaps, leave your shoes here?”
“No, I …” Willow glances down at her bare feet, and when she looks up again, this time at me, her cheeks are flushed pink. “I have a little problem.”
I step forward, edging Bellamy out of the way as I regain my composure. With an arch of an eyebrow, he steps back but hovers close enough to be part of the conversation. Unfortunately.
Despite his many redeeming qualities, the man consumes gossip like some people drink coffee.
“ Another little problem?”
She frowns. “I’d hardly call”—Willow frowns at Bellamy like she also doesn’t want to explain earlier events—“what happened earlier a little problem.”
“More of a legal problem,” I mutter. “Or it would be if I weren’t in such a forgiving mood.”
“ This is you in a forgiving mood?”
“Archie missed nap time today, I’m afraid,” Bellamy says, shifting forward again to reinsert himself into the conversation. “It has quite the impact on his mood.”
“Archie?” she asks, looking at me with the slightest upturn of a smile.
“Archer,” I correct.
“See? Grumpy ,” Bellamy whispers.
At this, Willow smiles, and a flash of irritation moves through me at the way Bellamy has already won her over. It’s one of his special skills—one that makes him indispensable to me. He’s the charmer; I’m the curmudgeon.
Right now, I wish he’d be a little less charming.
I wonder if he’d be so friendly if he knew I found Willow in my closet. Likely not. Eventually, he will find out. He always does. And though Bellamy loves people, he is extremely protective of me. A stranger hiding in my closet would have him on high alert, thinking of security measures, not flirting with the intruder.
So, why don’t I tell him? It would be the fastest way to ensure I don’t have to deal with Willow. But I decide to keep this to myself.
“What is your little problem?” I ask, again stepping between her and Bellamy.
Willow clears her throat. “I’m locked out of my apartment.”
“You didn’t bring a key with you?”
“I never left—” Willow stops herself just before she insists she never left her apartment. “I never had my key. Or my purse. Or my shoes.” She directs this last bit at Bellamy.
“Are you sure the key isn’t in your pocket?” I ask.
“No pockets. See?”
She gestures to her shorts. Which, I realize now that she’s forcing me to look, have llamas on them.
Llama pajamas.
I almost laugh, and the urge to do so stuns me into silence.
When was the last time I laughed?
“I didn’t realize we were having a pajama party tonight or I would have dressed accordingly,” Bellamy says.
I ignore him. Willow offers him another smile. “It wasn’t exactly a plan.” Turning back to me, her smile falls. “In any case, no pockets. No key.”
“And this is my problem how ?” I ask.
Willow crosses her arms. “Because you’re my new landlord, and that makes me your problem.”
She most certainly is.