Page 90 of Designed for Disaster

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to circle back to the ‘someone’s trying to lure me to my death’ idea.”

“This does scream murder mystery, I’m not gonna lie.” Stacy picked up the key. “I wonder if your soon-to-be murderer’s DNA is on here.”

I knocked it out of her hand. “Don’t say that. I bet they just had the wrong address.”

“Well, your name was on the envelope, so it’s definitely from someone you know. And if we’re weighing the odds?—”

“I don’t like it,” I grumbled.

“Ifwe’re weighing the odds,” Stacy said, continuing her thought, “it has to be Trent.” She opened Google, typed in the address, and zoomed in on Google Maps. “Nothing definitive is popping up, but I don’t know who else can afford real estate in this part of the city.”

The last thing I wanted was for this to be from Trent, but I couldn’t deny that she was probably right. I didn’t exactly have a long list of wealthy friends who had access to property in that part of Manhattan. Plus, of all our theories, this one made the most sense.

“Man,” Stacy complained. “Isooowish I wasn’t working this afternoon. I’d totally go with you to have a look. Because let me be clear, you definitely need to check this place out. I mean, like, be careful…obviously. Text me when you get there to let me know you’re alive and all that.”

“Ew, no. Who said I’m going to check it out?”

“What?” she gasped. “You have to! I need to know what it is.”

I shoved the key in her direction. “Then be my guest. Text me when you find out.”

“No, Natasha. If this is from Trent, then you definitely need to be the one to check it out. First, so you can tell him the way to an apology is not with a creepy key with an unsigned note. And second, so you can kick him in the balls for treating you like an asshole. It’s the least he deserves after everything.”

“Hmm,” I said, picking up the key. The thought of seeing Trent again was a little too tempting. Even if itwasonly to kick him in the balls.

Forty minutes later, I was making my way down a slick side street in Manhattan, following Google Maps to the location pinpointed on my phone. I’d taken one bus and the subway to get here, so if this all turned out to be a giant waste of time, I was going to be pissed.

I slipped my phone in my pocket and stuffed my hand back in my glove as I came upon a large grey warehouse. It looked like a relatively new build, the siding shiny and sleek, devoid of the rust that marked some of the nearby buildings. I pulled the key from my pocket and walked up to the door. There were no markings or signs, not even a NO TRESPASSING notice, so I slipped the key in the keyhole, and my heart gave a little flip-flop when the door unlocked smoothly.

I pulled my phone out and quickly messaged Stacy to tell her I was going in. Inside, the lights flicked on automatically, seemingly triggered by motion. I gasped at the shelves that stretched out before me. There were at least a dozen of them, each one stocked to the top with woodworking supplies. I walked along the nearest shelf of hardwoods. There was oak, teak, maple, cherry, walnut, mahogany, ash—and those were only thewoods I recognized off the top of my head. Some of them had to be rarer finds. I Googled images, certain I was looking at zebrawood and something else called purpleheart.

I sucked in a sharp, disbelieving breath. The space smelled absolutely divine. As I came upon the second set of shelves, I spotted the plywoods and MDF. The next one had rolls of upholstery fabric, leather, and foam for cushions. There were top-of-the-line power tools, bins of screws and nails and fasteners, and drawers upon drawers of hardware—enough to form a lifetime supply.

I veered away from the shelves, toward the far end of the warehouse which was divided into a massive workstation filled with table saws, band saws, and sanders and a temperature-controlled finishing station stocked with paints, stains, and varnishes. I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was every furniture designer’s dream workshop, and my heart raced at the thought of what I could create here. It made my current workshop look absolutely pathetic.

Footsteps echoed behind me, and I twisted to find Trent approaching. He lookedreallygood—better than anybody had a right to. A hint of a smile curled his lips, and there was a bit of dark scruff covering his cheeks, just the way I liked. I caught my breath from the sight of him. He was so devastatingly handsome, and this wassonot fair. I’d stumbled right into his trap. Stacy’s comment about kicking him in the balls resurfaced in my thoughts, but it wasn’t funny anymore. This was the man that had taken everything from me, including my heart. Seeing him now, in person, hurt way more than it had that day I’d delivered Dee’s bookcase to Long Island.

Stacy was wrong. I definitely shouldn’t have come. I should have taken that key, stuffed it back in the envelope, and put it right in the trash.

“I’m really glad to see you,” Trent said, drawing close enough that I’d usually be able to smell his cologne, but all I could smell was wood.

“How’d you even know I was here?” I asked. “Were you staking out the place?”

He laughed. “No. The lights trigger the security cameras.”

“Right. So you were spying on me?”

“Not spying,” he insisted. “But it did let me know when you’d showed up. And I headed right over. I’ve been looking forward to showing you this place. It took me a bit of time to track down the rarer woods. The bocote and purpleheart mostly.”

So, I was right. It had been purpleheart I’d seen.No, wait! Don’t let him do this. I couldn’t let him talk himself back into my good graces. He didn’t get to come waltzing back into my life when I’d finally started to get it back together. He didn’t get to look into my eyes and make me want him just when I was figuring out how to make life work without him.

“What do you think?” Trent asked, striding across to an office area with a desk. “I had them put this in so you could take meetings while you’re here or use the space to collect inspiration. There are places for you to sketch things out,” he touched a massive sketch pad, “which will transfer your designs right to the computer. And the printer is wireless. Print as much as you want. And these boards are cork, so you can pin ideas for new lines.” He dropped his hands to his hips, grinning. “I thought it could sort of be like your inspiration station.”

“It’s magnificent,” I said, unable to lie to him. “And incredibly thoughtful.” Which was also true. But I couldn’t let that lure me into dropping my defenses.

“It’s for you,” he said, surging toward me. “All for you to do whatever you want. Build and dream and create until you run out of ideas, though I know that’ll never happen.” I took a small step back, and he slowed, his expression growing more serious. “I was a giant idiot, Natasha, to accuse you the way that I did. I never should have said those things, and I hope you’ll accept this space as a token of how sorry I am for the way I treated you.”

I bit my tongue, stopping myself from lashing out in anger. Did he really think an apology and some money thrown around was all it took to wipe away the pain he’d caused me? His presence was enough to mess up my mind, to fill my senses and make me doubt the hurt I’d felt, but I couldn’t let myself be distracted by a nice gesture.

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