Page 33 of The Serendipity

Probably not.

But now, I’m fairly convinced that Sophie is right and the building does have some kind of magic.

I would have preferred a genie granting wishes or a cloak of invisibility.

Basically, just aboutanything at allinstead of being transported to the closet of a man who disliked me on sight.

Probably because I appeared in his apartment unexpectedly. Just like right now.

Gee, thanks, building. Tell me you don’t like me without telling me you don’t like me.

As soon as I’m sure I did not, in fact, blind myself on Archer’s blasted wire hanger, I readjust my grip on the box of cookies and listen.

If I’m lucky, the apartment will be empty. It’s after nine o’clock on a Friday night when most people—those who haven’t been decorating cookies all night—are out. Though I don’t see Archer as a night owl or a party animal. He seems like the kind of man who has a very specific sleep schedule and probably gets upat some ungodly hour, like four in the morning, to run or, at the least, go to work.

Oh, no … what if he’s asleep?

The idea of running into Archerawakeisn’t a prospect I’m thrilled with, but the idea of exiting this closet to find him in bed has my stomach tensing.

I wonder if he sleeps shirtless…

NOT RELEVANT,I tell my brain, which has clearly taken up residence in the gutter.

But it’s especially hard to fight off speculation now that I can picture him shirtless.

One more time for the Willa in back: NOT. RELEVANT.

Honestly, it’s a little concerning that my thoughts are occupied more with thoughts of Archer and his potential shirtlessness than the fact that I once again somehow transported magically from one closet to another. I’m not sure what this says about me or about the human brain’s ability to adapt—or maybe compartmentalize.

I’ll worry about that later. Once I’m safely out of here—if possible, without being detected.

As I press my ear to the door, I hear nothing. Not the sound of footsteps or voices or snores or even breathing. Nothing to indicate a (definitely hot) man is sleeping (possibly shirtless) a few feet away.

When I slowly emerge from the closet, there is still only silence, accompanied by the potently eerie feeling of being completely alone.

Archer is not here.

Which means if I hurry, I can get out before he knows I have once again appeared in his closet.

This time, he probablywouldcall the police, and I don’t want to test my theory.

I mean, the man wouldn’t even try one of my cookies! He’s a fun hater. Or a sugar hater.

Possibly—probably—a Willa hater.

Bellamy, on the other hand, just might keep me in business a little longer if he maintains his current ordering frequency. That man knows how to wear an expensive suit but also eat a sugar cookie.

Their good cop/bad cop dynamic is fascinating to me. Archer is younger but is also Bellamy’s boss. And yet the vibe is less boss-employee and more like that of a fun older uncle with his fun-hating adult nephew. Or something.

But I don’t need to ponder their odd relationship right now. What I need to do is to sneak out of this apartment and deliver these cookies.

Though if the apartment is empty, that means Bellamy isn’t here either. I’m not sure where else I’d find him. He had me deliver them to Archer’s apartment the other two times. By way of the front door, not a stupid portal closet with a mean streak.

Tonight, I lost track of time—not an unusual circumstance—so I’m delivering them later than I’d like.

Though I’m fairly confident I’m alone in the apartment, I still creep out of the closet as quietly as I can. Archer’s furniture has arrived, giving the bedroom a very different look today.

Unsurprisingly, his furnishings are spartan and masculine, with only a few necessary items: bed, side tables, dresser. All dark, heavy wood with a plush area rug. No paintings or pictures on the wall. Nothing personal. Nothing out of place.

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