Page 48 of Whistleblower

I’m good with being alone… A sweet, decaf coffee paired with a deliciously trashy book has been my routine for months now. There are far worse ways to spend an evening.

The kettle is whistling before I notice the open beer bottle on my kitchen counter. It’s dripping with condensation and a small puddle of water surrounds it. Odd. I open my fridge door as my heart begins to pound. Did I miss something? Checking my fridge, I confirm my discomfort. I don’t have beer… Because I don’t drink beer.

Someone was in my apartment.

My heart rate rises to the pace of a hummingbird’s wings. Breathing in deeply through my nose and exhaling through my mouth, I attempt to ease the panic.

Stay calm.

You are so fucking paranoid.

You have housekeeping, remember?

Rushing to the coat hooks by the entryway, I retrieve my cell phone from my purse and call the apartment building’s service line.

“Good evening, this is Georgie.”

“Hi Georgie,” I begin, forcing myself to speak slowly and clearly. “My name is Eden Abbott. I’m in apartment four-two-eight-nine. I’m calling to check in on the housekeeping schedule this week. Were there any changes? I’m scheduled for Monday afternoons between one and three o’clock but I believe someone’s been in my apartment today.”

Please, please say there was a swap. My heart is beating so hard, it’s impossible to focus on anything else. Georgie asks me to wait one moment as he rustles through papers.

“Ma’am, you’re still scheduled for Monday. I don’t have any logs for forty-two eighty-nine today.” Georgie’s tone is lackadaisical. He clearly doesn’t understand how important this conversation is to me.

“Were there any maintenance checks today?” I continue almost pleadingly. “I believe I saw an email about fire and carbon monoxide alarm checks.”

“Uh,” Georgie says, loudly clicking a computer mouse. “Those are supposed to start next week, but it’s possible maintenance got started early. We have a couple of guys out for the holiday next week.”

Phew. Okay, good. “Georgie, one of the maintenance workers left a beer dripping on my kitchen island counter. All due respect, I’d appreciate it if they’d take their belongings with them.”

“Jesus, ma’am. I am so sorry. I’ll fill out a report. They shouldn’t be drinking on the job.”

“Oh no, please don’t bother. No need to get anyone in trouble, I was just a little startled is all. Thank you for clarifying. Have a good evening.”

“You as well, ma’am.”

My heart rate finally calms. Never in my life have I been more appreciative of rebellious, sloppy apartment maintenance workers. I dump the beer down the drain and rinse the bottle before dropping it down the apartment’s built-in recycling shoot.

Fully dressed in pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I fix my coffee treat and head to the bedroom. I’d rather read under the covers tonight, and my current contemporary romance novel is already bookmarked on a sexy page and waiting for me on my bedroom nightstand.

Pretend with Me is one of my prized possessions because it’s signed by the author. I drove out of my way to San Francisco in the hellish traffic to a local bookstore when I learned Adler Haley was in town. Actually, I believe it’s Adler Lewis now. I remember her explaining there was some confusion with her publisher over changing her name on the cover. People were getting confused after she took her husband’s last name, but from the sounds of it, she told her publisher to shove it and make the change. She was proud to be a Lewis. I smile at the memory, she had such a big personality for such a petite little thing.

I try to conjure up an image of a suitable male main character in my mind. Adler’s book describes him as tall, dark, and handsome. He’s intelligent, bookish, and definitely a brunette with dark eyes, but for some reason, all I can picture are Linc’s light blue eyes, his thick muscular forearms, and his broad, sculpted shoulders that are always easy to make out through all his thin dress shirts.

Fine. It was a pretty intense crush. It’s going to take a little extra time to get over it—

Holy shit.

I nearly choke on my spit when I pull back my duvet cover. The coffee in my mug sloshes over the rim. It’s not quite hot enough to burn me, but it makes a mess—down my forearm, onto my clean white sheets, right onto the red envelope lying underneath the covers.

My heart rate accelerates out of control again as I set my mug down like a zombie and confront the reality in front of me.

It wasn’t maintenance.

The envelope is unmarked, but the note inside is unmistakable—

Eden, we need to talk.

Visit Hanesville.

---