Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Willa
I am wholly unprepared to be transported across the building again.
One second, I’m reaching in for a sweater to put on over my tank top. Then I trip. And because I must protect the cookies at all costs, I awkwardly fall inside my closet, shielding the box against my chest.
And now, here I am. It’s dark, and I’m surrounded by a scent I would describe as Sexy Man Who Wears Expensive Cologne.
“Ouch!” I whisper-shout, clutching the box of cookies to my chest with one hand as I rub my eye with the other. “Who even uses wire hangers?”
Archer Gaines, that’s who.
If I had any question about whether I was transported to his or some other random closet in the building, the smell of Archer—heady, rich, masculine, expensive —assures me I’m back at the scene of the original crime against nature. It’s like the man has somehow infected my nostrils.
Why should I remember his smell? And why does he have to smell good?
If his scent matched his personality, it would be sour grapes. Or sour milk. Just … sour. And dour.
Okay, that’s not fully true. He has a tiny sense of humor I’ve seen glimpses of, like when he calls me Willa the Person. He also happens to look as good in only running shorts as he does in a fitted suit.
So it’s not fair that he also has an intoxicating smell that’s currently going straight to my head.
Speaking of my head, it’s surprisingly calm about the whole transportation thing. Or maybe I’m just resigned?
The reality—strange and unbelievable as it may be—is that my closet seems to inexplicably shoot me across the building and into Archer’s closet.
Against my will, I might add.
Is it possible to charge an inanimate object with time-travel assault?
Probably not.
But now, I’m fairly convinced that Sophie is right and the building does have some kind of magic.
I would have preferred a genie granting wishes or a cloak of invisibility.
Basically, just about anything at all instead of being transported to the closet of a man who disliked me on sight.
Probably because I appeared in his apartment unexpectedly. Just like right now.
Gee, thanks, building. Tell me you don’t like me without telling me you don’t like me.
As soon as I’m sure I did not, in fact, blind myself on Archer’s blasted wire hanger, I readjust my grip on the box of cookies and listen.
If I’m lucky, the apartment will be empty. It’s after nine o’clock on a Friday night when most people—those who haven’t been decorating cookies all night—are out. Though I don’t see Archer as a night owl or a party animal. He seems like the kind of man who has a very specific sleep schedule and probably gets up at some ungodly hour, like four in the morning, to run or, at the least, go to work.
Oh, no … what if he’s asleep?
The idea of running into Archer awake isn’t a prospect I’m thrilled with, but the idea of exiting this closet to find him in bed has my stomach tensing.
I wonder if he sleeps shirtless…
NOT RELEVANT, I tell my brain, which has clearly taken up residence in the gutter.
But it’s especially hard to fight off speculation now that I can picture him shirtless.
One more time for the Willa in back: NOT. RELEVANT.
Honestly, it’s a little concerning that my thoughts are occupied more with thoughts of Archer and his potential shirtlessness than the fact that I once again somehow transported magically from one closet to another. I’m not sure what this says about me or about the human brain’s ability to adapt—or maybe compartmentalize.
I’ll worry about that later. Once I’m safely out of here—if possible, without being detected.
As I press my ear to the door, I hear nothing. Not the sound of footsteps or voices or snores or even breathing. Nothing to indicate a (definitely hot) man is sleeping (possibly shirtless) a few feet away.
When I slowly emerge from the closet, there is still only silence, accompanied by the potently eerie feeling of being completely alone.
Archer is not here.
Which means if I hurry, I can get out before he knows I have once again appeared in his closet.
This time, he probably would call the police, and I don’t want to test my theory.
I mean, the man wouldn’t even try one of my cookies! He’s a fun hater. Or a sugar hater.
Possibly—probably—a Willa hater.
Bellamy, on the other hand, just might keep me in business a little longer if he maintains his current ordering frequency. That man knows how to wear an expensive suit but also eat a sugar cookie.
Their good cop/bad cop dynamic is fascinating to me. Archer is younger but is also Bellamy’s boss. And yet the vibe is less boss-employee and more like that of a fun older uncle with his fun-hating adult nephew. Or something.
But I don’t need to ponder their odd relationship right now. What I need to do is to sneak out of this apartment and deliver these cookies.
Though if the apartment is empty, that means Bellamy isn’t here either. I’m not sure where else I’d find him. He had me deliver them to Archer’s apartment the other two times. By way of the front door, not a stupid portal closet with a mean streak.
Tonight, I lost track of time—not an unusual circumstance—so I’m delivering them later than I’d like.
Though I’m fairly confident I’m alone in the apartment, I still creep out of the closet as quietly as I can. Archer’s furniture has arrived, giving the bedroom a very different look today.
Unsurprisingly, his furnishings are spartan and masculine, with only a few necessary items: bed, side tables, dresser. All dark, heavy wood with a plush area rug. No paintings or pictures on the wall. Nothing personal. Nothing out of place.
The perfection of it makes me want to go untuck his bedspread and rumple his sheets or leave a few drawers askew. Disrupt his order just the tiniest bit.
But I also don’t want to leave any evidence behind.
Hurrying out to the main room, I draw in a sharp breath. The furnishings are still heavy and masculine, but here, there’s a much homier feel than his bedroom. Warmer. Almost cozy.
The couch is leather, but it’s the supple kind that looks like you’d sink comfortably when you sit. A navy chenille throw blanket is tossed casually over the back of it. A newspaper sits folded on the seat of an armchair upholstered in a plush blue patterned fabric.
A number of potted plants, the kind I can’t afford and probably wouldn’t be able to keep alive anyway, enhance the hominess of the space. Sophie could tell me their names, but I’m going to assume most are the only indoor plant whose name I know: the fiddle leaf fig.
Rather than a giant television like I’d expect to see, on the wall across from the couch hangs a large painting of what appears to be a western landscape: fields with scattered cows and snow-capped mountains in the background. It’s the kind of picture you could stare at for hours and dream about climbing into it.
A few other smaller, abstract paintings adorn the walls. Not the weird kind of abstract that makes me question art and whether it’s really a big inside joke and preschoolers are the ones actually making it. But attractive swaths of color that look intentional and balanced and really liven up the large room.
The space looks warm and inviting. There’s even a half-full glass of water on the coffee table.
Gasp! A glass left on the table without a coaster?
Perhaps Archer Gaines is human, after all.
But I don’t have time to test out how comfy his couch is or relish in confirmation of his humanity.
I need to get out before he returns.
At the front door, I hesitate.
What about the cookies? I could just leave them in the hallway and text Bellamy to say that no one answered the door. While I like the residents of The Serendipity and think it’s a safe place, I don’t trust people, as a general rule. Especially not when it comes to something tempting like a box of delicious—unless you’re Archer—cookies left in the hall.
What’s the likelihood the cookies will still be here when Bellamy returns to the apartment?
I’d feel safer leaving them on the marble island in the kitchen—a counter so gorgeous I’d like to climb up and lie down on just to feel the cool marble on my skin. But that would be evidence I’ve been inside Archer’s apartment. Again.
Debating, I set the cookies down and slide my phone out of my pocket, sending Bellamy a text.
Willa
Sorry it’s so late, but I’ve got your cookies! Can I bring them up?
I try not to wince at the lie. I mean, technically it’s not a lie. My text makes no false statements. But it does imply I’m in my apartment asking this question. Not standing inside Archer’s kitchen, lusting over his glorious island and considering pulling a Goldilocks on his leather couch.
Bellamy
Unfortunately, you missed me. I’m on a train to Boston, then back to New York until late next week.
Willa
I’m so sorry! I should have come earlier.
Bellamy
It’s fine. I didn’t let you know when I was leaving. Just leave them with Archer. If for some reason he’s not there, put a note on the box saying they’re from me.
Bellamy
Perhaps he’ll even eat some and the sugar will loosen him up. But that will mean I’ll need another order when I return next week.
I chuckle. The man really does love his sweets. I thought, at first, maybe Bellamy just felt sorry for me. That he was trying to make up for Archer’s coldness by ordering dozens of cookies.
Or maybe that he sensed my desperation for more business.
But when I dropped off the last box, Bellamy shoved one in his mouth immediately, eyes rolling back in his head. I can’t say I mind the encouragement and enthusiasm.
My conclusion is that Bellamy just really loves my cookies.
And I will refuse to be offended that Archer wouldn’t even try them. Or I’ll tell myself not to be offended. My phone buzzes with another text.
Bellamy
Or you could come drop them off when he’s home. Despite what you might think, he’s lonely.
Archer—lonely? This gives me an unwanted squeeze of something a little too like empathy. Loneliness is something I understand. After I rejected Trey’s proposal and before I met Sophie, I had some lean, lonely years.
I had a handful of high school friends who moved back after college. But our friendships weren’t the same as before, and Mel, the one I’d been closest to back in the day, totally ghosted me. It was an extra vulnerable time in my life, and even thinking back to it makes me feel a little ill.
As much as I haven’t enjoyed my interactions with Archer, moving to Serendipity Springs from New York would be a transition. And he doesn’t quite fit here, what with his fancy suits and his whole cranky vibe.
Archer seems like an incredibly self-sufficient person. Confident, capable, and cool … but could he be lonely?
And why should I care if he is?
Bellamy
I’m sure he’d love company.
Willa
Not mine.
Bellamy
Especially yours.
Willa
Most especially NOT mine.
Bellamy
Between the two of us, I’m the Archer Gaines expert, and I’m telling you he’d be happy to see YOU.
He might think he’s an expert, but Bellamy is wrong. At least in this regard.
The fact that he’s arguing with me about it makes me think Archer still hasn’t told him about finding me in his closet.
Which makes me wonder … why?
Why would Archer keep this a secret?
And why is Bellamy insisting Archer would be happy to see me?
It doesn’t matter. I’m not coming back here another time, especially now that I know Bellamy won’t be back until next week. Everything in my body is screaming for me to get out of this apartment now before Archer finds me here.
There’s a pen in a neatly organized drawer, and I add the word “from” above Bellamy’s name on the box.
If I leave the cookies here on the island, hopefully Archer will assume Bellamy left them here before he went.
The only issue is leaving Archer’s door unlocked as I exit. But I don’t have much choice. So I leave, furtively glancing around the hallway, grateful when I don’t run into anyone on the fourth floor.
I had the foresight to give Sophie a key to my place after the original closet incident.
Just in case.
I head down the back stairs to her apartment, hoping she’s there when she doesn’t respond to my text.
What I don’t expect is to be bowled over the moment I exit the stairwell by someone running.
“Oof!”
My back hits the wall, and I almost go down, but a large body pins me in place. A large body and … trash bags?
“Archer?”
He jumps back, dropping one of the bags in the process. His eyes flash to mine, then quickly away. He bends to grab the trash bag he dropped, and when he straightens, his cheeks are red.
The whole thing is a strange look—a man in a very expensive suit with a blush on his cheeks and an overflowing garbage bag in each hand.
It’s almost like one of those Celebrities—They’re Just Like Us! moments.
Grumpy billionaires … they’re taking out their trash—just like us!
But does Archer really take out his own trash? If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. I also can’t really see Bellamy, with his tailored suits and perfectly coiffed hair, being that person either. He might have joked about being the Alfred to Archer’s Bruce Wayne, but Bellamy is no butler.
“I didn’t see you,” Archer says in a clipped tone, which I guess is as close to an apology as I can expect.
Based on how he smashed into me, it appears he was running away from the back doors.
But that doesn’t make sense—running or bringing trash bags inside when the dumpster is just outside the doors.
“Is everything okay?” It definitely doesn’t look okay.
Besides the trash, his dark hair is rumpled, and his suit jacket looks like it popped a button and is hanging open, his tie askew.
He looks better this way, and it reminds me of how I wanted to mess up his bedroom just a little bit.
And now I’m also blushing. Because I was just in this man’s bedroom, and he has no idea. I’m also in my pajamas in front of Archer. Again. I hope he can’t look at me and tell that I just crept out of his apartment like a cookie-leaving criminal.
“There’s an opossum out there,” he says through clenched teeth. “Or a whole family of opossums. I’m not sure. It’s—they’re—guarding the dumpster.”
I do my very best not to laugh, but the mental image of this scenario is too potent. “I see.”
He glares. Guess I’m not hiding my amusement as well as I’d like. “They gave chase,” he says.
“ Gave chase ?” I repeat. Even the man’s words sound like rich-person speak.
He ignores me. “They’re probably rabid.”
“Possums play dead. They don’t typically chase people. And they almost never get rabies—something about their body temperature.”
I typically don’t store up random animal facts, but Sophie started sending me Instagram reels of cute puppies and kittens that soon shifted to raccoons, possums, and capybaras, which I didn’t know existed before this year. A two-hundred-pound rodent sounds like something out of a movie.
Actually, it is—an R.O.U.S. from The Princess Bride . Though capybaras are much cuter and less likely to eat you in a fire swamp.
The point is: my entire Instagram feed is now nothing but animals, and I have amassed a random collection of facts.
“It’s why possums are so good for the environment,” I continue, though it’s immediately clear Archer doesn’t care. “They eat ticks and other icky pests and are less likely to carry rabies than raccoons.”
“And guard dumpsters,” Archer mutters.
“Are you sure they were possums?”
“ O possums, and yes.”
I know it’s childish, but I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “It’s possum. Opossum is the slang word for them. The one little kids use.”
“Incorrect. The technical name is opossum.” Archer seems so sure that now I’m questioning myself, even though I’m the one with the possum-filled Instagram feed. “Look it up if you don’t believe me,” he says.
We stand there, glaring, until it dawns on me that for a person who avoids conflict like it’s an infectious disease, I can’t seem to stop diving headfirst into it with Archer. It’s like his personality unlocks some basement level in me.
I don’t like the transformation.
And yet, it clearly energizes some part of me, which isn’t something I want to admit, even to myself.
“We can save this debate for later,” I say, fully intending to walk away, find Sophie and my spare key, and then place caution tape across my closet so I never go in there again.
But then Archer glances toward the back doors with clear trepidation on his face, and my steps slow.
He’s lonely , Bellamy told me earlier, and I wish he hadn’t.
Because if there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s helping people who need it. Before those texts, Archer seemed like the kind of man who needed nothing.
Now, he’s standing here in a fancy suit holding a trash bag in each hand, still breathing a little hard from being chased—allegedly—by possums.
I frown. “ You were taking out the building trash?”
I wish I’d done a little better job of hiding the disbelief in my voice.
He hesitates. “Yes.”
Then I remember that this week, Archer fired John, the building manager. Gloria from 3G told me when I ran into her getting mail this week. She stores juicy tidbits about people in the building like some people doomsday prep. But somehow, it’s not in an unkind way. More like she’s The Serendipity’s version of a gossip column.
I didn’t particularly love John—he was slow to respond if residents had any issues and a grumbly crank about most things—but he did work here forever .
If Archer can kick someone like him to the curb, what other changes will he make?
I think of the kitchen and Archer’s questions about my agreement with Galentine. If I have any hope of keeping my baking space, maybe I need a different approach than sparring with Archer at every turn.
And it’s thoughts of my business—and mostly my business—not an unwelcome spark of pity for how lost Archer seems right now that has me asking, “Can I help?”
Archer blinks at me, looking a little stunned. “With the trash?”
I bite back a few remarks about things I think he could use help with. Like his personality. And his apparent lack of a heart, as evidenced by firing John. Despite all my reasons not to help him, my sense of compassion has mixed with my sense of self preservation.
We are doing this thing.
I hold out my hand. “Give me a bag. We can go together. Safety in numbers.”
I want to add, Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe from the big, bad attack possum , but Archer looks so flustered, I hold back.
Flustered is a state of being I’m very familiar with. I’d guess for a man like him, it’s more like an out-of-body experience.
He hesitates but then hands me one of the bags. “Fine. But I warned you.”
He did warn me.
So when we step outside and immediately there is a hissing gray creature hurtling toward us, all jagged teeth and pointy snout, I should be prepared.
But I’m not really sure words can be enough to warn someone about an attack possum. Or o possum.
There’s only one, but it seems much too large and far too angry and somehow gives the impression of being a possum army rather than one rather oversized rodent.
Mammal?
Marsupial!
Instagram possum facts zip through my addled brain at the speed of light before I take hold of my limbs and move .
With a shriek probably heard three states away, I hurl the garbage bag at the creature and dart back into the building. Unfortunately, Archer is a step ahead of me but stopped, like he suddenly remembered he was probably supposed to be chivalrous and let me go first.
I plow into him, knocking us both to the ground. His bag of garbage goes flying and, unfortunately, lands in exactly the right spot to block the door from closing.
And then the attack possum leaps over the garbage bag and bolts inside The Serendipity.
Acting completely on impulse and instinct, I grab Archer by his fancy suit lapels and roll. We’re a tangle of limbs and chaos of grunts, ending when I hit the wall. Archer’s broad back is the only thing shielding us from certain possum doom.
The creature bolts past us in a streak of dirty gray fur, scamper-sprinting toward the front of the building like it’s on some kind of mission.
Only once it’s halfway down the hall do I turn my attention back to Archer and realize I’m still clutching his jacket with a certain-death grip, holding him inches away. We are practically nose to nose, our breaths mingling.
I realize I’m staring at his mouth, which has the tiniest white scar through his cupid’s bow, and my gaze snaps up to his. Archer is already looking into my eyes, and unlike so many times before, he doesn’t glance away.
His eyes are lovely, actually, a dark blue-gray that’s softer than I’d thought, almost like the color of sky at twilight after the golds and pinks have faded. A warm, fluttery feeling moves through my middle. His gaze is heavy, weighted with something I cannot read.
But there’s an openness and vulnerability to him right now, as though crashing to the ground knocked loose whatever tight shell he keeps wrapped around himself. What’s revealed underneath has left me stunned and breathless.
Or maybe I just knocked the wind out of myself while rolling.
“Sorry,” I say in a breathy whisper, not even sure what I’m apologizing for.
Knocking him over?
Not taking him seriously about the possum?
Or maybe for not making any move to put a reasonable distance between us?
Right now, the distance between us is highly un reasonable. We’re end of a first date about to kis s close.
You may kiss the bride close.
Soldier back from war close.
Or, in our case, possum frightened into panic mode close.
“For what?” Archer says, his voice just as unsteady as mine.
“What?” I parrot back. My thoughts are syrupy and slow.
“You’re sorry for which part—for not believing me about the attack opossum, tackling me, or ensuring my suit will need to be dry-cleaned and pressed?”
I swear, I see a hint of amusement in his eyes. I didn’t think Archer had the ability to be amused.
I release my grip on his lapels. But pressed this close together, my hands have nowhere to go except to what I have confirmed is a muscular chest. Because it’s not enough that Archer Gaines smells good and has really lovely eyes—when he’s not glaring at me. He has to pack a bunch of muscles underneath his fancy suits too.
There’s a crash and clatter at the end of the hall, startling me out of whatever sorcery has left me feeling a whole new set of emotions for Archer Gaines.
He scrambles to his feet and reaches down, tugging me up in a swift motion—more evidence of his enviable fitness level. I’m so startled, I just stand there, gaping.
Until barking at the front of the building has both our heads whipping that way.
Before my feet can move, Archer is jogging down the hall. He turns his head and calls, “Considering this is your fault, are you going to help?”
I chase after him. “This isn’t my fault! For the record, it’s the possum who’s to blame. Not me. And you’re the one who threw the trash bag right in the doorway.”
“Sure,” Archer says as I catch him. The edge of his mouth lifts in a smile. “Because you tackled me.”
We round the corner at the end of the hallway and enter the front lobby. Where Sara’s massive puppy—already larger than most full grown dogs—is barking at the possum, which is lying belly-up on the floor, motionless.
Sara is barely able to hold back Archibald, who has his butt in the air, tail wagging wildly like he is hoping the possum will decide to be his new best friend.
“Oh, now you play dead,” I say, glaring at the possum, who’s doing a very convincing job.
“Maybe it is dead?” Sara says, struggling with Archibald’s leash. “It keeled over and hasn’t moved an inch. But could someone get it out of here?”
Archer looks to me, and I shrug. “I’m not the one who owns the building.”
With a sigh, he steps forward and nudges the possum with the now-scuffed toe of his dress shoe.
With a deeper frown and a bit more force, Archer pushes the possum again. Still no movement. No reaction. Is it even breathing? I see no sign that it is.
Archibald sits back on his haunches and whines, the very literal picture of puppy-dog eyes.
“I think,” Archer says with a frown, “it’s actually dead.”
“Do you think Archibald scared it … to death?” Sara whispers. With a heavy sigh, the dog in question drops his head to his paws.
I shouldn’t feel anything remotely sad for this overgrown creature, with its wicked teeth, rat tail, and its propensity to chase humans. But I do feel bad.
Perhaps because I was at least partly responsible for the whole situation. Though I would argue that Archer shares equal responsibility for its demise. I certainly can’t blame Archibald. Puppies get a pass on scaring possums to an early demise.
“Maybe he was already dying?” I suggest. “He was behaving oddly. I mean, he chased us, then ran into the building.”
“You said opossums don’t get rabies,” Archer says.
“I’m not saying it was rabid. Just maybe … sick.”
“What do we do with it?” Sara asks.
“I suppose put it in the dumpster,” Archer says, nudging it once more. I watch hopefully for any movement, but there’s nothing.
Archer gives a firm nod, like he’s decided something, then bends and reaches for the possum’s tail.
“You can’t pick him up by his tail!” I say.
He pauses, still bent over the animal. “Why not? And how do you know it’s a him ?”
“I guess I don’t. And it just feels … wrong. Be respectful. He died .”
I expect an argument or at least resistance. But Archer’s soft twilight eyes meet mine again, and he offers me a grim smile. Crouching down, he flexes his fingers, then starts to slide them underneath the creature’s midsection, much like you might pick up a cat.
In a hiss and a flash of pointy teeth, the possum miraculously revives and launches itself at Archer.
With a very girlish scream Archer shoots to his feet, flailing his arms as the possum climbs him like a tree.
Not to be left out, Archibald leaps, Sara loses her grip on the leash, and the billionaire, the dog, and the marsupial crash to the floor in a flash of fur, teeth, and an expensive suit that will most definitely require dry cleaning. Or perhaps a funeral pyre.