Page 82 of Lock Every Door

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Seriously, don’t sweat it. The rules are just there to make sure apartment sitters realize this is a serious job.”

Nick gets out of bed, displaying none of my shyness. He moves to the window and stretches, showing off a body so beautiful my knees go weak. I have another of those I-can’t-believe-this-is-real moments that have happened since I moved into the Bartholomew.

“I do realize that,” I say. “Which is why I’m freaking out.”

Nick toes a pair of plaid boxers on the floor, deems them acceptable, and slides them on. “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about losing twelve thousand dollars.”

I step into my jeans and give him a quick, close-mouthed kiss, hoping he can’t detect my morning breath. Then, with my shoes and bra in hand, I scamper barefoot down the stairs.

“I had a great time,” he says as he trails behind me.

“I did, too.”

“I’d like to do it again sometime. Any of it.” He flashes a grin the devil would envy. “Or all of it.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Me, too. But not now.”

Nick grips my arm, not letting me leave just yet. “Hey, I forgot to ask. Did you find anything in 11A? I meant to ask last night, but—”

“I didn’t give you a chance,” I say.

“I was all too happy to be distracted,” Nick says.

“I found a book.Heart of a Dreamer.”

“Not surprising. Copies of that are everywhere in this building. Are you sure it was Ingrid’s?”

“Her name was in it,” I say. “Greta signed it for her.”

I’d love to tell Nick more. That I’m surprised Greta never mentioned it during our conversations about Ingrid. That I’m worried she’s suffering from more than just her sudden sleeps. But I also really, really want to get back to 12A, just in case Leslie Evelyn decides to drop by. After last night, I now expect to see her at every inopportune moment.

“We’ll talk later,” I say. “Promise.”

I give him one last kiss and then rush into the hallway. My first walk of shame. Chloe would say it’s about goddamn time, even though I wouldn’t have minded going through life without this particular trek. At least it’s a short one—a barefoot dash from 12B to 12A.

Once inside, I drop my bra and shoes on the foyer floor and toss my keys toward the bowl. But my aim is off yet again, and the keys end up not just on the floor with everything else but on the heating vent, where they skitter, slide, and drop right through.

Fuck.

Wearily, I head to the kitchen, tripping over a rogue shoe in the process. Since I don’t have one of those handy magnet sticks Charlie used, I search the junk drawer for a screwdriver. I end up finding three. I grab all of them, plus a penlight that’s also in the drawer.

While I unscrew the grate, I think about Nick. Mostly I think about what he thinks of me. That I’m easy? Desperate? For money,yes, but not affection. Last night was an anomaly, spurred on by adrenaline and fear and, yes, desire.

I harbor no illusions that Nick and I are going to fall in love, get married, and live out our days on the top floor of the Bartholomew. That only happens in fairy tales and Greta Manville’s book. I’m no Ginny. Nor am I Cinderella. In less than three months, that clock’s going to strike midnight, and it’ll be back to reality for me.

Not that I’m far from it. Lying on the floor in yesterday’s clothes while reeking of sex is pretty damn real.

But I’m pleased to see that Charlie was right about the grate being easy to remove. I loosen the screws and remove the covering without a problem. The biggest issue comes from the penlight, which flickers until I give it a few good whacks against my palm.

Once it’s working properly, I aim it into the vent itself and immediately spot the keys. Surrounding them are other items that have fallen in and been forgotten. Two buttons. A rubber band. A dangly earring that must have been cheap if whoever lived here couldn’t be bothered to fish it out.

I grab the keys and leave everything else. Before replacing the grate, I sweep the light across the bottom of the vent, just in case something more valuable has fallen in there. Like cash. A girl’s allowed to dream.

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