Chapter Twelve
Chapter
Twelve
“Close your eyes!” I screamed like a crazy woman.
To hell with the area rug, I decided the split second before making a mad dash for Wyatt.
A purple bra had landed on his head, one cup dangling in front of his face.
He brushed it aside before I could reach him.
A cross between a whimper and a burst of hysterical laughter escaped me as I snatched the bra out of his hand.
It matched the purple thong resting on his left shoulder.
I grabbed that too and started plucking damp and brightly colored underwear—well, brightly colored except for that one beige bra—off him like my life depended on it.
I spun around, lunged into my bedroom, and dumped everything on the bed.
I took half a second to make sure I didn’t have any underwear still clinging to my clothes, and then I bolted from the room, slamming the door behind me.
I snatched a towel from the open closet and shoved it at Wyatt’s chest. Then I grabbed his arms—barely registering the feel of his corded muscles beneath my hands—wrenched him around, and shoved him toward the open apartment door.
I didn’t ease up until he was out in the hall.
“Sorry! Thank you! Sorry!” I babbled before slamming the door and sagging against it.
“You have reached a new low, Emersyn Gray,” I said once I’d caught my breath.
Could life get any more mortifying? If so, I didn’t want to know about it.
Through my haze of humiliation, I managed to remember that I was still dripping water all over the floor. Shivering, I realized that I was freezing.
And the drop in my body temperature had nothing to do with Wyatt’s absence.
Not at all.
Muttering an array of curses under my breath, I stomped back over to the closet, grabbed two towels, and took them into the bathroom. I struggled out of my wet clothes and dried myself off before wrapping myself in one of the towels and fetching fresh clothes from my bedroom.
Dry now and fully dressed—but without a shred of dignity left—I emerged from my bedroom and dug the oldest towels out of the closet to use on the kitchen floor.
“Stupid rippling muscles,” I groused as I sopped up the puddle. “Ridiculous twinkling eyes. Infuriatingly luscious hair.”
That I long to run my hands through.
“No!” I reprimanded myself. “No, I don’t. Absolutely not.”
And I totally wasn’t the least bit disappointed that Wyatt hadn’t stripped off his soaked T-shirt in my presence. Not even a little bit. Nope, nope, nope.
I paused when I heard footsteps and voices out in the hall.
Familiar voices.
I abandoned my cleanup and lunged for the apartment door, yanking it open. I nearly flung myself out into the hall but stopped right before hitting Wyatt’s chest.
He stood there, fist raised to knock, holding my towel—blush pink—and wearing a perfectly dry, heather gray T-shirt.
“Why are you still here?” I pointed at his shirt before he could reply. “And where did you get that?”
“I’m heading to the gym later, so I had a spare shirt in my car. But I thought I should bring back your towel.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.” I was about to take the towel from him when I remembered why I’d opened the door in the first place.
I squeezed past him so I could get out into the hall. Our arms brushed against each other, skin against skin.
If there was an electric sizzle in the air, I was perfectly capable of ignoring it.
At least, I was at the moment, because I was far more interested in the fact that Agnes Gao was currently holding Mrs. Nagy by the arm and leading her into the apartment next door.
“Mrs. Nagy!” I exclaimed with relief so immense that I forgot about any sudden desire to plaster myself against Wyatt.
“Hello, dear,” Mrs. Nagy said with a weak smile. She then disappeared into her apartment, Agnes still supporting her.
Since neither woman made a move to shut the door, I took that as an invitation to follow them inside.
“Are you okay?” I asked Mrs. Nagy as she lowered herself into a worn old armchair.
Even as the words came out of my mouth, I saw that she looked pale and appeared to have aged five years overnight. Concern prickled beneath my skin.
“I’m all right,” she said, attempting a stronger smile. “Just worried about my Zoltán.”
Agnes shook her head sadly. “He’s still in custody.”
“He didn’t kill Freddie.” Tears brimmed in Mrs. Nagy’s blue eyes. “My Zoltán would never kill anyone.”
I knelt on the floor next to her chair and took her hand. “I know that. The police have got it wrong. They’ll figure that out soon.”
I hoped with soul-deep desperation that I’d spoken the truth.
“Sorry,” Wyatt said from the open doorway. He stood there, still holding my blush-pink towel. “Should I put this in your apartment, Emersyn?”
“Wyatt!” Agnes’s face lit up. “Perfect timing!”
I jumped up and grabbed the towel from Wyatt. “He’s just leaving.”
Agnes didn’t seem to hear me. She took Wyatt by the arm and tugged him over to stand in front of Mrs. Nagy. Then she dug a crumpled business card out of her pocket. My stomach sank when I recognized it. She pressed the card into Mrs. Nagy’s hand.
“Wyatt of Wyatt Investigations,” Agnes declared with a radiant smile. “He’s a private detective.”
“Actually—” Wyatt began.
“Actually,” I cut in loudly, “Wyatt Investigations is my firm.”
“Oh, perfect!” Agnes exclaimed before I could say anything more. “You can work the case together!”
She looked at us like we were avenging angels, there to save the day.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering how to explain the whole Wyatt Investigations thing succinctly, but my thoughts stumbled to a screeching halt when I saw the glimmer of hope in Mrs. Nagy’s eyes.
She smiled, the expression no longer weak. “Emersyn, I didn’t know you were a private detective now.”
“Technically, I’m not,” I said.
“It’s a new agency,” Agnes chimed in with an understanding nod. “But we’re not worried about licenses or certifications. You can get those later. You don’t need them to clear Zoltán’s name.”
“Er…” I glanced at Wyatt, wishing he’d clear up the obvious confusion.
He, however, seemed completely unbothered by the hot water we were rapidly sinking into.
“You’ll help her, won’t you?” Agnes asked Wyatt, beaming at him expectantly.
“Actually, he’s—”
“Please,” Mrs. Nagy implored.
I made the mistake of looking at her. Those kind blue eyes of hers shimmered with tears.
“Please help my Zoltán,” she begged. “Please, Emersyn.”
That request coming from a kind, elderly lady would have been difficult to deny.
But Zita Nagy was a kind, elderly lady who also happily provided me with free babysitting for Livy, who kept my niece supplied with homemade cookies, and who’d welcomed us into the Mirage community with open arms when we’d moved in last year.
That made her request impossible to turn down.
Which is why, despite my grave misgivings, I heard myself saying, “Of course I’ll help you, Mrs. Nagy.”