Page 7 of The Right Move

My apartment.

Though, this apartment is so bare it feels like I’m sitting in the middle of a museum more than anything and maybe that’s why my lack of things is evident. He doesn’t have much either.

His place is spotless and minimalistic. Black and white with no pops of color in sight—besides my wardrobe currently skewed across his living room as I attempt to organize. Attempt being the key word here.

I’ve been to this apartment a handful of times since I met Stevie, but it never looked this empty and…lonely. Stevie is as bright as I am. I guess all the color left when she did.

However, the view is breathtaking, the city skylights and the sunset over the Navy Pier distracted me for the first hour I was here.

My self-guided tour takes me to the kitchen. A single-cup coffee maker with one mug nestled underneath, ready for tomorrow morning, I guess. Dishes—four big plates, four small plates, and four bowls—all in black, like they came in a set, as if he’ll never have more people in his home. Not so surprising, when I open the first drawer—four spoons, four knives, four forks, most likely purchased in a small set.

I get that he travels for work as much as I do, but what if he wants to have friends over? Or what if he brings a woman home one night and she’s hungry, but he hasn’t done his dishes from the previous day yet?

Seems impractical to me, but something tells me that Ryan Shay thinks having just enough to get by is completely practical.

Back in the living room, my finger trails over his bookshelf, praying, hoping it picks up a layer of dirt or dust. Something to tell me this guy is human and not a robot as the rest of his apartment suggests.

There’s not a single photo in his home, but countless books. Every kind of motivational or self-help book you could imagine lines the shelves and they’re organized by…Are you kidding me? Alphabetical order of the author’s last name. This guy is a monster who probably runs marathons for fun and passes out nutrition bars on Halloween.

Lifting my finger from the shelf, it comes up clean. Not one speck of dust.

I hate it here already.

The click of the front door halts my movements.

He was supposed to be gone all night at some fancy event for the city. I was supposed to have time to clean my mess, get my clothes hung in the closet and my books picked up and piled neatly before he came home. This place is a disaster, and I was hoping to make a better third impression on Ryan Shay.

Kicking my piles of clothes into one, I try to take up as little space as possible, hoping he might not notice the bomb that went off in his home since I moved in two hours ago.

“What. The. Fuck?” His tone is dry and even.

Attempting to get myself together, I brush the stray, wispy hairs away from my face and plaster on my most charming smile. It works every time.

“Hi—” I turn around with a wave, but it dies in the air when I see the owner of this apartment standing inside the doorway.

I’ve met Ryan twice. Once he was shirtless and the other time, he was in casual clothes at a bar. But right now? In a fitted suit? Jesus Christ, I can’t live here.

It’s black with a subtle pinstripe throughout, and the dark color somehow makes his blue-green eyes that much more vibrant. His light brown skin and freckles match his twin sister, but I can guarantee I’ve never looked at Stevie the way I’m staring at her brother right now. Licking my lips, my eyes wander over his hair—chestnut and freshly faded on the sides with a bit of the Shay signature curls on top.

Ryan and Stevie’s mom is a white woman with freckled skin, blue eyes, and copper hair. Their dad is a black man, tall with a head of dark curls. The Shay twins are a combination of both their parents, but Ryan and Stevie seem to have inherited all the same attributes.

I’ve blurted it out both times we’ve met, but Ryan Shay is hot. He might be a robot, but he’s the sexiest robot I’ve ever seen.

“Indy.” He snaps me out of my trance.

Closing my mouth and crossing one leg over the other, I meet his eye. “Hmm?”

“I asked what the hell happened to my apartment?”

“Oh.” I awkwardly laugh. “You see, I’m organizing.”

“Organizing?”

“Yep.” Motioning to the chaotic mess I made on his living room floor. “My clothes.”

“If that’s your version of organizing, I don’t know if this arrangement is going to work out.”

I laugh at his joke before realizing, unfortunately, there’s no teasing in Ryan’s tone. He’s serious.

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