Page 11 of The Serendipity

I wonder if he’d be so friendly if he knew I found Willow in my closet. Likely not. Eventually, he will find out. He always does. And though Bellamy loves people, he is extremely protective of me. A stranger hiding in my closet would have him on high alert, thinking of security measures, not flirting with the intruder.

So, why don’t I tell him? It would be the fastest way to ensure I don’t have to deal with Willow. But I decide to keep this to myself.

“What is your little problem?” I ask, again stepping between her and Bellamy.

Willow clears her throat. “I’m locked out of my apartment.”

“You didn’t bring a key with you?”

“I never left—” Willow stops herself just before she insists she never left her apartment. “I neverhadmy key. Or my purse. Or my shoes.” She directs this last bit at Bellamy.

“Are you sure the key isn’t in your pocket?” I ask.

“No pockets. See?”

She gestures to her shorts. Which, I realize now that she’s forcing me to look, have llamas on them.

Llama pajamas.

I almost laugh, and the urge to do so stuns me into silence.

When was the last time I laughed?

“I didn’t realize we were having a pajama party tonight or I would have dressed accordingly,” Bellamy says.

I ignore him. Willow offers him another smile. “It wasn’t exactly a plan.” Turning back to me, her smile falls. “In any case, no pockets. No key.”

“And this is my problemhow?” I ask.

Willow crosses her arms. “Because you’re my new landlord, and that makesmeyour problem.”

She most certainly is.

Chapter Three

Willa

“Okay,”I tell my closet. More precisely, my closet door.

Which is closed and looks exactly as a normal closet door should. Sturdy. Wooden. Door-like.

I marched straight to it the moment the new building owner unlocked my door. More precisely, the moment after I slammed the door on his handsome but grumpy face—the one I’m struggling to banish from my memory.

My closet and I need to have words.

“You,” I say, “are a closet. You store clothes and shoes. You tend to attract moths. That is your sole purpose.” I pause. “The clothes storing, I mean, not the moths.”

The closet, being just a closet, does not respond.

“You are not a T.A.R.D.I.S. or a portal. You aren’t even a Narnian wardrobe. There is no Mr. Tumnus or Turkish delight inside you.” I shake a finger at it. “Remember your place. You have one job, and it is not to somehow transport me into the closet of a very attractive man who now thinks I’m some kind of stalkerandwho also has the power to evict me. Do we understand each other?”

I didn’t really expect the closet to react in any way. But I still pause and wait a few long seconds while the closet continues doing its normal closet thing.

Exactly as it was doing earlier when whatever happenedhappened.

Depositing me in the closet of the most intimidating—and attractive—man I’ve ever met. When he threw open the door, I felt a mix of terror andhel-lo, nurse.

Not that there was anything at all nurse-like about him. From his tailored suit to his fierce eyes and tense jaw, he is not the kind of person you’d want at your bedside. His manner is far too severe.

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