Chapter Twenty-Two. The Body in The Broom Closet
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE BODY IN THE brOOM CLOSET
I try to take a step back to give Felix space and feel something shift behind me as my shoulder makes contact.
It’s a handle.
The thought flashes in my mind like a siren, and I brace for the clatter of a mop falling over.
By some miracle, Felix manages to grab it in time, one arm reaching behind me while the other snakes around my waist, pulling me closer before I can bump into anything else.
All those group dance numbers must have sharpened his reflexes.
For a few seconds, I’m too frazzled to breathe.
It’s just as well, considering Felix is going to feel every exhale.
Congratulations to me on making the situation a thousand times more tense!
Now I have to choose between repeating the same rookie mistake and staying adhered to the front of his shirt.
It’s a tougher decision than you’d think, until I recall that Felix has something in his hand.
Not because I can see it—it’s dark in here, and his arm is basically wrapped around my waist—but the shape is pressing against my spine.
He’s still holding the blueprints. If I move more than an inch or two, there will be major crinkling.
Since the only prospect more dreadful than getting caught in this apartment is getting caught in this apartment with a top secret drawing of the Bernie Dream House, I will be staying where I am.
The front door slams. I guess there’s no need to be gentle with the aging hardware if you’re planning to tear the whole place down. Claude’s carpet is too thick to track footsteps, but we can follow his sister’s progress by the stream of nonsense she spouts at the cat.
“I know,” she baby talks. “It’s boring when Mama goes out and leaves you all alone in this dump. Not much longer now, angel baby.”
Zenobia yowls in response. I wonder if she’s objecting to this characterization of her home or the insipid nickname.
Don’t go into the office, I think at Bernie. We definitely didn’t hide all traces of our presence there. Maybe she’ll blame it on Zenobia—
Oh crap. What if she decides to clean up the broken pot on the floor? The first thing she’ll go for is a dustpan, which is almost certainly in this closet. Either Felix can feel my heart rate kick into a higher gear or I’m starting to pant, because he leans his forehead against mine.
It’s better than a shhhh because I am immediately distracted.
The spotlight in my brain shifts from freaking out to Felix.
Maybe he’s not just comforting me or reminding me to be quiet.
All the clues I’ve collected since our first meeting seem to be pointing in a certain direction, but I know the dangers of getting too attached to an unsupported hypothesis.
I could test the theory—my eyes squeeze shut in a cringe I’m sure he can feel. What is wrong with me? We’re not playing a middle school party game. All my attention belongs on the situation outside this closet. And yet …
Hopefully Felix attributes the muscle spasm in my face to Bernie’s change in direction. It sounded like she was detouring for the kitchen, until she murmured something to Zenobia about “freshening up.”
Maybe that’s code for going to the bathroom. She seems like the type who would use cutesy euphemisms for bodily functions, because saying the word “pee” is definitely worse than scheming to steal someone’s home.
Ever so carefully, Felix shifts so his cheek is alongside mine.
“Should we—” he begins, the barest whisper against the shell of my ear, only to falter at the rush of water through pipes that must run right past this closet.
We stay like that as Bernie’s voice floats toward us from the other end of the apartment, growing louder as she approaches the living room.
There’s a rustling sound, like papers are being sorted. “Now where did I leave that card? Mama can’t turn up empty-handed. Attention to detail matters. We have to show that we know how to do things properly. That’s called class.”
I can’t see Zenobia, but I hope she’s chosen this moment to hoist a leg over her head and give her nether regions a thorough licking.
“How’s my lipstick?” Bernie asks.
Felix tenses, and I’m pretty sure we’re thinking the same thing: Is she looking in the massive mirror next to the front door?
The one Claude had specially lit so he could gaze upon his own magnificence before venturing into the world?
I’m suddenly grateful I got to teach him the phrase “fit check” before he died.
If that is where she’s standing, she’s probably about to leave. Which means we are almost in the clear. My heart decides this is a good time to beat harder.
“I agree,” Bernie says, as if Zenobia expressed an opinion. “Not too pink and not too orange.”
I feel a flutter against my temple that must be the movement of Felix’s lashes. I’m sure he’s blinking in consternation at the conversation this lady is holding with her brother’s cat, but all I can think is butterfly kisses.
“Do I look like a businesswoman?” she continues, giving me a few seconds to sternly inform my limbs that there will be no trembling. “Leave it to me. I’m going to close this deal and then we’ll be set for life. We don’t need a man to save us. Mama’s got this. One more little spritz before I go.”
The relief of knowing she’s about to leave is so immense I permit myself the first deep breath I’ve taken since we squeezed into this closet.
Only the “little spritz” must have been closer to a gallon of perfume, because I taste chemicals on the back of my tongue.
Felix seems to have inhaled some too. We turn our heads at the same time, me burying my face against the front of his shirt while his nose presses into the crook of my neck.
There’s a scratching sound at the closet door. It’s a good thing we’re holding on to each other, because otherwise one or both us would have panic-flailed and brought down a shelf of cleaning supplies.
Zenobia chirrups at us, wanting in or wanting us out. I can’t believe she’s going to blow our cover, after the untold number of treats I’ve snuck her over the years. But Bernie is too focused on her mission to be sidetracked, even by Zenobia.
“Leave it, precious. I’ll bring some Raid up from the kitchen when I get back.” I hear the shake of a treat bag before Zenobia takes off like a shot. “It won’t be like this in our new place,” she croons. “Everything will be clean and fresh.”
After a series of loud kissy sounds, the front door closes and locks.
There is a beat of silence, and then another. Slowly it dawns on me that I’m clutching a shirt that isn’t mine, breathing in the scent of an unfamiliar detergent—and underneath that, a hint of Felix.
Probably we shouldn’t move right away. There’s always a chance she forgot something else and will turn around and come back. No sense blowing it this close to the finish line.
The longer we stand like this, the more that feels like an excuse.
Maybe we’re doing this because we want to.
And if we’re this close already, what’s to stop us from pushing things a little farther?
It’s true that I wouldn’t have listed “broom closet” as my top location for a first kiss, but it turns out I’m not opposed.
As the seconds tick by, I start to worry I’ve read the situation wrong.
What if Felix is waiting for me to let go of him so he can get out of here?
That would be humiliating. As an experiment, I loosen my grip, shifting slightly so I’m not quite pulling away, but the opening is there if he wants it.
Felix hesitates. I feel him inhale before starting to lift his head. Only instead of stepping back and then straightening, his face touches me the whole time, a slow slide of skin along my neck and jaw. All I’d have to do is angle my chin sideways and our mouths would be touching.
If only I knew whether that was something he wanted. Then again, I’m not quite ready for him to stop this thrillingly ticklish contact with my cheek. I need to see how this is going to feel when he reaches my earlobe.
Oh. That wasn’t nearly enough time to appreciate the experience, but I’ve run out of skin. I wish this was a game of Killing Me Softly so I could tell him Take it from the top.
His phone lights up, the glow visible through his pocket. Felix clears his throat, stepping away to check his notifications.
“She’s in the van.”
“Phew. That was a close one.” I’m following his lead, acting like the only noteworthy event in the last ten minutes was almost getting busted by Bernie. Pushing open the door, I suck in air like I’ve been starved for oxygen.
Zenobia stares at me, sitting upright as a statue with her tail curled around her legs.
What? I want to say to her. Nothing happened. These pink cheeks? Pure relief.
She blinks at me in the spare-me-your-BS manner of felines.
Okay, fine. I’m bluffing; it doesn’t feel like nothing to me. Because as he was pulling away, there was a moment when Felix paused with his lips to my skin, at the exact place between my jaw and neck where I can feel my pulse throbbing right now.
Some would call that a kiss, despite there being only one mouth involved.
“I’m glad she can’t talk,” Felix observes from behind me.
“Yeah, that is a seriously judgy face.”
There’s a lag before he responds. “I meant so she couldn’t rat us out.”
“Ah. Same.” I look at the floor to avoid seeing how that whopper went over (with Felix or the cat). “What were you going to say? Before. Should we what?”
“Make a break for it. I thought it might be our only chance.” It sounds logical, but his blush tells a different story.
“I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t.”
“For sure,” he agrees.
“Since we would have been caught,” I add, in case he wants to disagree.
But Felix only nods. I guess we’re putting a pin in the Mystery of the Maybe Kiss.