Page 26 of Citius

And here I thought I couldn’t feel any more self-conscious about my scent signature.

A text from Alijah arrived. For strangers-turned-temporary roommates, we got on surprisingly well. We’d probably keep hanging out even if I didn’t join the pack.

Post-workout breakfast? Joaquin’s treat.

Works for me.

As I stepped off the elevator into the sixth-floor hallway, I heard the stairwell door click shut. Turning, I caught a brief glimpse of our possible neighbor through the inset window—a woman in a black coat, carrying a work bag…with purple-red hair.

Great. Now I was seeing shit.

“Pull yourself together,” I said, giving my cheeks a pair of light slaps, then headed inside. “You can’t go to pieces after one encounter.”

Early mornings were supposed to be my thing. Not Owen’s time to hold court in the dining room, wearing a suit vest, taking uniform bites of plain wheat toast. My brother acknowledged my presence with a nodand continued reading the news on his tablet.

Alijah’s voice echoed from the lofted secondary living room as I went upstairs.

“I like the chaise up here, don’t you? Perfect for a relaxing cuddle. Drink some wine, have some snacks, admire the skyline, look at the stars. But it needs something, don’t you think?” He buzzed about, arranging framed photos on the built-in industrial pipe shelving. A ballerinaen pointehere, a touchdown celebration there. “Maybe some throw pillows—or a lot of throw pillows?”

“Sure. Pillows.” Joaquin lay sprawled across the massive gray chaise. Arms folded behind his head, on the verge of falling asleep.

“Too fussy for this room?” Alijah paused to look at his mate, elbow-deep in a packing box. “We could move it back downstairs.”

“Heavy.”

“I know it’s heavy, but that shouldn’t—”

“No. Too heavy.” Joaquin let out a monstrous yawn. “Pillows, yes. Hauling it downstairs again, no.”

Pillows. Realization slammed into me. My steps faltered as I crossed the walkway to my room.

Throw pillows. Big fat ones. An eclectic mix of vintage velvet fabrics. Tassels. Arranged behind Morgan’s back on a super-wide, dove gray chaise. Sitting next to Jacobi Zeldin. His blinding smile overpowering her subdued happiness.

The photo she’d posted on her birthday last year.

Buoyed by an odd concoction of panicked certainty—and leaking a massive amount of pheromones—I retreated to my attached bathroom, slamming on the exhaust fan. I sped through Morgan’s social media profile on my phone.

There. A photo of Jacobi sitting on the chaise. Massive silver Christmas tree glittering in the background. Decorated to the max. Watching a blonde woman play a grand piano. Not just any woman—but Kelsey Van Daal.

That very same grand piano was downstairs, shoved in the corner of the living room.

And there. A chunky black and white cat loafed on the windowsill of Morgan’s bedroom. The Wittara River meandered through the background. Brick buildings stood in the distance.

Almost identical to the view out the window of Owen’s overloaded new kitchen. The view I’d admired while downing my pre-workout coffee this morning.

Even the directions of the lofts made sense. Jacobi was an artist, whowould naturally position his studio for northern exposure, and the same diluted light would also be ideal for Morgan’s bedroom because of her headaches.

Scrolling back even further, tearing through time, I kept looking for definitive proof. Until, at last, there it was. Dated eight years ago.

Jacobi stood in the middle of a half-collapsed brick building, arms wide, grinning like an idiot. Totally at odds with Morgan’s sedate caption:A fool and their money.

She lived in a building she bought with Jacobi. A former mill building.

Thisbuilding.

Morgan was my brother’s new neighbor.

Should I tell the others? No, they didn’t know her. Didn’t need to know our history.

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