Page 25 of The Escape Plan

Keeley

There’sa little less spring in my step when I trudge home around lunchtime, my pale skin beginning to redden as the sun climbs higher in the bright blue sky.

I’m so lost in thought about my phone conversation with Freya that when I fling open the front door of my apartment building, I don’t notice Archibald the Bernese Mountain dog hurtling towards me at full speed until it’s too late.

His owner, Sara, is about ten steps behind, yelling his name as he flings himself up and almost knocks me over. Somehow, I miraculously stay upright as Archie happily licks ketchup from my shirt before moving on to maul my face with ketchup-y kisses.

Despite myself, I have to laugh.

“Hey, cutie,” I say as I pet his massive black head.

“Sorry!” Sara pants as she struggles to take control of her pet’s leash. “Down, Archibald. Get down!”

“I think he’s grown even bigger.” I’m not sure what floor Sara lives on, but everyone in the building knows her. Mostly because they’ve been greeted by Archibald at some point or another.

“I know,” she says, half in despair and half in utter infatuation with her sweet dog. “We’re headed for a walk to burn off some of his energy. Later, Keeley.”

I watch Sara walk Archie outside—or rather, watch Archie walk Sara outside—before making my way upstairs to my apartment.Stairsbeing the operative word, because I’m definitely not up for another stuck-elevator incident.

My apartment is still about a billion degrees, so as I clean my slobbery face with a hand towel, I decide there’s no time like the present to get some laundry done. The laundry room is in the basement of the building, so logic dictates it’s got to be at least a few degrees cooler down there.

Plus, it’s unlikely that anyone else will be doing their laundry on a gorgeous Sunday. I can skulk in my dungeon in peace and begin to wrap my head around the fact that I have to write an article I’d happily trade for a hundred more pieces on traffic laws.

Huffing, I grab my (very full) laundry basket and begin my trudge to the basement.

Which, I am happy to confirm, is alotcooler than my place.

I shoot off a text to Craig, asking (begging) to see if he can look at my AC this afternoon, and then get to work loading all my dirty clothes into a washer.

I’m adding soap when I realize I’m still wearing a shirt covered in ketchup. And I didn’t bring a clean one to change into.

Glancing at the door, I quickly decide that there’s little chance of anyone else coming in here. On top of that, I’m wearing a sports bra underneath my shirt, so if anyonedidswing by, I could simply pretend I just got back from a run.

Which would, at least, explain how sticky and sweaty I am at the moment.

I’m whipping off my shirt when the door opens.

Because of course it does.

And because the universe hates me and is clearly out to get me, the person who has just walked into the room is none other thanBeckett freaking McCarthy.

He’s already three steps inside the room when he spots me. The second he does, a crooked grin moves over his face as he assesses me, shirt in hand, blush blazing on my cheeks.

“Keeley, we can’t keep meeting like this.” His lilting voice is almost mocking, and that darned dimple in his cheek is back.

“Hello, Beckett.” Cool as a cucumber (yeah, more like hot as a chili pepper), I check my watch.

“It’s after noon. I figured you would have located the nearest Irish pub by now.”

His forehead creases, his grin disappearing. “That’s an extremely rude—and, frankly, offensive—stereotype of the Irish people, Keeley.”

His tone sounds a little injured, and I feel like I’ve just kicked a puppy or something. “Oh, my gosh, I’m sorry,” I say, backpedalling furiously. “I was totally joking. I didn’t mean to offend you…”

I trail off as I realize he’s laughing.

The jerk is laughing at me.

Again.

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