Page 18 of Twisted Vows

A few steps from her door, I drop the keys and make a show of retrieving them, using the time to listen for sounds inside her apartment. Hearing nothing, I unlock the door and close it behind me.

The fridge hums. A single dirty mug sits on the counter, but other than that, the kitchen and living room are tidy. A blanket hangs off the back of the couch as though someone flung it off their lap and rushed out the door.

There are no photos on the walls. No fancy decorations.

Yet the space feels comfortably lived in. The couch, coffee table, and bar stools are dated but clean and gently used. The room smells of clean linen and lemons.

I lift my foot to step deeper into the apartment but stop before I leave the front mat. A communal shoe rack sits along the wall. Two feminine slippers and an assortment of tennis shoes and low heels fill the rack.

Deciding not to be a barbarian, I toe my sneakers off and leave them on the mat before walking into the kitchen on my socked feet. Although outdated, the appliances seem well cared for and clean. Unable to resist, I open the fridge.

I blink. The neatly organized and clearly labeled containers filled with homemade food lining the top two shelves are a surprise.

Mia Rivera is a nurse who works night shifts. She spends more time at the hospital than she does at home. When the hell does she have time to cook?

I pull out a container, pop it open, and nearly fall to my knees as the aroma transports me back to my grandmother’s dinner table. Despite my stomach rumbling and my mouth watering, I close the lid and return it to the fridge without scarfing down the lasagne alla Bolognese cold.

Nowmia caramellina’s curves make sense. I’d weigh a million pounds if I could eat this kind of food every day.

A handwritten note sits on the counter from her roommate. Addressed tobestieand signedforever yours, the note has artsy doodles along the edges and enough shorthand to make me question if it’s written in English, but I get the gist. The authoradmits to watching the last episode of their latest TV series without Mia, so to apologize, she’s giving all the food in the fridge to her. She wishes Mia a restful weekend and can’t wait to catch up on Tuesday.

I check the back of the note, then study the front for a moment.

Is this a love letter?

Jealousy barrels through me, and the urge to crumple the note and light it on fire nearly wins, but I set it back on the counter and walk away.

Just the thought of sharingmia caramellinawith another lover—even a woman—boils my blood.

I stop halfway down the hall and rub my hands over my face to avoid looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve known her for less than a day, and I’m acting like a caveman. Sure, forced proximity in high heat situations can build a connection between two human beings, but Mia Rivera is not mine. I can’t lose focus on what’s most important—finding out who is funding Narciso’s attacks on the Vivaldi family.

The bedroom furthest from the living room may as well be a matchbox. It’s so tiny. There’s barely enough space for the full-size bed, a rolling garment rack, and a nightstand. I kneel on the bed and push the drapes aside. Thick blinds also cover the window. A peek outside reveals a boring view of other apartment windows, but the buildings are far enough apart to warrant their own escape ladders.

I close the blinds and curtains and run my hand through my hair.

This ismia caramellina’sroom. Several sets of scrubs hang from the clothing rack and a stack of medical books hides behind the door.

Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I search her nightstand and find it clean and organized and disappointingly absent of sex toys. Under her bed is just as meticulously organized, with two luggage bags of off-season clothing, a plastic bag containing extra linen, and a few odds and ends. There’s nothing from her past. No photos. No keepsakes. No old electronics. Nothing.

With a ball of dread in my stomach and uncertainty in my chest, I work through the rest of the apartment.

The bathroom is just as spotless as the kitchen and living room, but with a pedestal sink instead of a cabinet, they’ve used temporary hooks and shelving on the walls to give everything a place. Lipsticks, moisturizers, feminine products—it’s all visible from the doorway.

I head to the second bedroom and open the door with an odd sense of trepidation.

This is enemy territory. I should learn all I can about my competition.

When I catch the direction of my thoughts, I cut them off and focus on my task. I have no solid evidence her roommate is her lover, and no right to call Mia mine.

This room is much bigger than the other, but still not spacious. A colorful comforter covers the bed and handwritten poems and sketches line the walls. Clothes overflow the rack—which is identical to the one in the other bedroom—and a desk with a small tabletop easel and three different lamps directed at its surface sits in the corner nearest the window. The bright curtains and decorative pillows don’t match the comforter, but somehow the scheme works overall.

I look through the nightstand and desk. Every piece of paper points toward the owner’s interests: cookbooks, sketch pads, art magazines, and a few self-help books centered toward trauma recovery.

With nowhere else to check, I stop next to the front door and pull her phone from my pocket.

Besides three push notifications, one for the weather and two from medical blogs she follows, she hasn’t received a single call or message. Even her email inbox has only a few business emails.

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