Chapter 35
It’s a similar length ride to Harley’s as it was to get to Coach Pike’s place.
Thankfully, even though it’s close to lunchtime, there isn’t much traffic.
Her house is on a dead-end street, which contains one other house that looks like it’s empty, possibly abandoned.
She wrote in her text message that I should go around back to find the door to her basement apartment.
I arrive at Harley’s door, balancing the salad dressing in one hand and the Tupperware in the other. When she opens the door, she’s wearing her workout uniform, her pink-streaked blond hair tied back into a neat ponytail. Her stomach is peeking out, and the outline of her abs is visible.
“Debbie!” Her face lights up at the sight of me. “Come on in! I’ll show you around Casa Harley.”
I laugh as I step inside and Harley relieves me of my salad and dressing. “It’s so quiet here. There isn’t even one other car on the street.”
“I barely see my landlords who live upstairs,” she says. “They mostly stay inside, but right now, they’re in Michigan visiting their grandchildren, so I really am completely alone. They won’t be back till Monday.”
“You should throw a wild party.”
Now it’s her turn to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plans.”
We take a little tour of the apartment. It’s small, but she makes the most of the space.
She has a comfy-looking blue sofa with a TV tray set up in front of it, and Japanese doors separate the kitchenette from the living area.
She has managed to stuff a queen-size bed, a bookcase, and a dresser into her bedroom, with just enough room to walk between them.
“Nice place,” I say appreciatively as I look around the bedroom. It reminds me a bit of an apartment I rented back in my pre-Cooper days.
Then my gaze drops to her dresser. There’s a T-shirt crumpled up on top of the dresser, and it looks several sizes too big for Harley to wear. Before I can stop myself, I pick it up and realize that it’s a man’s T-shirt.
And there’s something achingly familiar about it. Not just about the way it looks but the way it smells.
“I sleep in that,” Harley says quickly, tugging it out of my hands. “I love sleeping in oversize T-shirts. Don’t you?”
Except the T-shirt doesn’t smell like Harley. The entire apartment is heavy with the distinctive scent of her perfume or laundry detergent or whatever it is. But that T-shirt smells different. Like men’s cologne and something else.
Sweat.
“Well,” I say brightly, “why don’t we have some lunch?”
“Sounds great!”
I follow Harley back to the living room, but I realize that I have suddenly lost my appetite.