Page 32 of The Serendipity

It’s the location issue I’m focused on as I carry the first two bags toward the rear exit of the building where I hope to find dumpsters. This was, unfortunately, one area of the tour Galentine neglected.

If I were a dumpster—a ridiculous statement—this is where I’d be.

I’m not sure who is using the various trash cans in public spaces around the building, but this seems to be where people deposit the things deemed too disgusting for their own personal trash. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth while holding these two particular bags away from my body. One smells like raw onions mixed with raw sewage, and the other one is worse because I can’t even attach a guess to the sickly-sweet odor of rot.

It’s too light for a dead body, so at least there’s that.

“Only two more,” I mutter to myself as I reach the rear exit where, thankfully, I do find three dumpsters along the back of the building.

I ignore the sounds of something scuttling around back there. Serendipity Springs is no New York, with its massive rat overpopulation, but a city is a city, a dumpster is a dumpster, and rats are rats.

Hurrying back inside, I try to think about my reward once I’m done. Running might be a punishment, not a reward for many, but it’s the one activity that’s never failed to make me feel energized—a reset for my body and my brain.

What probably would have been smart, I think, noting some kind of unidentifiable stain on my shoe,is to have changed into running clothes before doing this.

At least it’s late enough that the building is fairly quiet. I didn’t want to risk running into any other people, having any more conversations, or, most especially, being seen taking out the building trash. Nothing screamsI’m in chargelike carting stinking garbage bags around a building.

The only person I wouldn’t mind seeing is?—

Nope.

I don’t want to run into Willa. Especially not with a trash bag in each hand and unidentifiable sludge on my shoes. Though I’vealready made a terrible impression on her, and I’m not sure how it could be worse.

In any case, it shouldn’t be so hard to think about Willa. Especially when I remind myself about her appearance in my closet—and her ludicrous explanation. She is—with her trespassing and penchant for leaving ponytail holders all over the building and hard-to-banish sugar cookie scent—an embodiment of the kind of chaos I don’t need in my life right now.

But telling myself this doesn’t seem to have the effect it should, especially not when, as I’m emptying the kitchen trash, the scent of vanilla rises to greet me.

Chapter Seven

Willa

I am whollyunprepared to be transported across the building again.

One second, I’m reaching in for a sweater to put on over my tank top. Then I trip. And because I must protect the cookies at all costs, I awkwardly fall inside my closet, shielding the box against my chest.

And now, here I am. It’s dark, and I’m surrounded by a scent I would describe as Sexy Man Who Wears Expensive Cologne.

“Ouch!” I whisper-shout, clutching the box of cookies to my chest with one hand as I rub my eye with the other. “Who even uses wire hangers?”

Archer Gaines, that’s who.

If I had any question about whether I was transported to his or some other random closet in the building, the smell of Archer—heady, rich, masculine,expensive—assures me I’m back at the scene of the original crime against nature. It’s like the man has somehow infected my nostrils.

Why should I remember his smell? And why does he have to smell good?

If his scent matched his personality, it would be sour grapes. Or sour milk. Just … sour. And dour.

Okay, that’s notfullytrue. He has a tiny sense of humor I’ve seen glimpses of, like when he calls me Willa the Person. He also happens to look as good in only running shorts as he does in a fitted suit.

So it’s not fair that healsohas an intoxicating smell that’s currently going straight to my head.

Speaking of my head, it’s surprisingly calm about the whole transportation thing. Or maybe I’m just resigned?

The reality—strange and unbelievable as it may be—is that my closet seems to inexplicably shoot me across the building and into Archer’s closet.

Against my will, I might add.

Is it possible to charge an inanimate object with time-travel assault?

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