Page 51 of Daring You

15

Ben

I’m doing something stupid.

It’s incredibly obvious as I stand in front of a fifty-story luxury apartment complex in the Financial District, one hand holding a plastic bag steaming out its scent so passerbys think I’m an incredibly large delivery boy.

Night’s fallen, causing the wintery frost of New York City to become a dark ice pit of Hell. Yet here I stand, my breath blowing out cold, puffy clouds, my face numb, and my ears prickling like a tiny elf is stabbing them with icicles.

I don’t step forward through the doors and into the warm interior of the gold-washed lobby.

“Excuse me,” someone says from behind, and brushes my shoulder as they walk by and cruise through the revolving doors. The person looks back once, twice, and the third time I cock a half smile at their recognition.

“Are you…?” he begins, but the doors are forced to circle by someone else stepping in, and off my wayward fan goes, tripping over his own feet as he tries to keep up with the swing.

Hey, at least it wasn’t Mike.

That’s the risk, isn’t it? I’m standing in front of Astor’s building, and at any moment, Mike could spot me.

It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong. I’ve been around Astor plenty of times before and Mike hasn’t given a shit—his mistake, really, but he’s got the instincts of a trash panda, so no surprise there. If I see him, I can just say Astor wasn’t feeling well and I was bringing her a to-go bag of Ash’s cooking.

I screw up my mouth into a sneer. The fact that I’m attempting to figure out excuses to say to fuckin’ Mike is more of a clue I’ve been standing out here too long than the frostbite forming on the tip of my nose.

Onward.

I’m through the doors and striding through the lobby like I own the place, in no mood to announce myself to Astor before I arrive, lest she employ a few deadbolts in anticipation. I simply nod to the on-duty security guards (always hardcore fans of football with those little TVs they got going there), smile widely and with a lot of white teeth at their stuttering recognition, and I salute them and promise a picture when I return.

Which could be in the next two minutes.

I have a feeling Astor is alone up there, in her thirty-sixth floor apartment. Anyone with a clue could see how distant she was at Ash’s, but we’re all so wrapped up in the group atmosphere, it might’ve been hard to spot, had I not been close by and noticing her murderous glances at her ring finger.

Not only that, but I gotta figure out what she knows.

The latter is exactly what I tell myself as I ask Ash for an extra helping, letting him assume I’m going to demolish it later when back at my place. It’s the mantra I repeated as I plugged in Astor Hayes’s coordinates when calling a car.

None of it has to do with concern and making sure she’s alright.

Nope. Not a bit.

I palm the bottom of the bag, ensuring it’s still retained some warmth during the dri—dammit, I don’t care if she eats it!

The doors ding open and I stalk through, scowling at my inability to do my own detective work. I should’ve called Aiden for pointers, except that would mean I’d have to tell him about Astor’s snooping, and fuck knows how he’d feel about that.

Cool. Unfeeling. I’ll draw inspiration from the winter cloak over this city if I have to.

I push the doorbell at the center of her door and cover the peephole.

The light padding of bare feet sounds on the other side, and I envision her covering her slim, pert ,lace-clad body with a satin robe, ‘cause why not?

I imagine her peering through the hole, and, unable to see anything, say—

“Who is it?”

“Delivery,” I reply.

Astor left Ash’s place without eating anything, not even the crud plate or whatever the fuck Ash called the veggies he had out on some platter. Odds were, she’d order delivery at some point, and it looks like I’m just in time, as I hear the locks click open. She has at least three, and I wait patiently.

I’m unprepared for the bare arm to stick out through the crack, palm open.

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