Page 13 of City of Love

“I’m sorry.” I frown, holding my bag closer to me. “You want me to dowhat?”

“I want you to empty your bag,” he says, as though it’s the most logical thing in the world.

It really isn’t.

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “Absolutely not.”

“Empty your bag,” he says again.

“Why?” I ask, exasperated. I shift slightly as I stand.

“Because you’ve been in my apartment. I want to make sure you didn’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you.” As he speaks, he has the audacity to look at me likeI’mthe weird one in this situation.

“Are you kidding me?” I say.

“No,” he says, his voice flat. He crosses his arms over his chest again, and from this angle, he towers menacingly over me.

“Wow,” I say. “You have problems.” I gesture around his flat. “What would I possibly take?” I can’t decide if I’m offended or worried about his mental state. Is it normal to be this suspicious?

He shrugs, leaning one broad shoulder against the door. “If you don’t have anything to hide, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” I say through gritted teeth, “but this is a huge invasion of privacy. Do I look like the kind of person to take advantage of a stranger’s hospitality?”

Mr. Grump just stares down at me, his gaze inscrutable. “A pretty face can hide a plethora of sins. And that bag”—he nods at my admittedly very large purse—“could hide a plethora of my belongings.”

“Fine,” I huff, although I don’t know why I’m giving in to his demands. Unless he actually takes the bag from me—though I wouldn’t put it past him—he can’t force me to show him the contents. It’s pride more than anything; I don’t want him to think so little of me, although it shouldn’t matter. I guess the gentle, comforting man from earlier was a fluke.

“Fine,” I say again. I hand him my purse, knowing full well I’m about to be embarrassed. But better embarrassed than being accused of thievery.

Mr. Grump glances down at me before turning his gaze to my bag. Without warning he goes back to the futon, and I follow. We both sit, and then without hesitation he starts removing the contents of my bag one by one.

First comes a travel packet full of tampons and pads. Supersized tampons, of course, and overnight pads that you could basically use as a pillow. Go big or go home, right? My cheeks burn, but he doesn’t so much as give the items a second glance. He just moves on, his hand disappearing into my bag again. My hair brush comes next, and he sets it carelessly on the futon next to him. After that is my tube of mascara, followed by my keys, which I have no use for here but carry anyway because it feels weird to be without them. Then he pulls out a little packet of tissues and a mini bag of peanuts from the plane. I don’t really like peanuts, but I didn’t want to waste food.

I do a mental inventory of the contents of my bag, and I think he’s reached the end of the top layer—the normal layer, or things that you might find in most purses. He’s about to reach the things buried in the bottom of the bag.

The next item out is a book—my latest read. It’s a trashy romance novel—a guilty pleasure read with an unrealistically clad man and woman in a passionate embrace on the front. It’s completely silly so far, and I’ve already had to skip an uncomfortably explicit sex scene, but I thought I’d branch out.

Mr. Grump eyes it for a second before his gaze flits to me, a smirk playing briefly at the corners of his lips.

“Don’t judge me,” I say quickly, my cheeks heating once more. “I saw it in—”

He holds up one hand, yet again interrupting me. “No need to justify anything to me. You don’t owe me explanations.” Then he puts the book down next to him and turns back to my purse.

When he pulls out the next item, I shift uncomfortably again. It’s the stress ball I always keep in my bag. It’s not a normal stress ball, though; it’s a hideous thing, a sort of neon blue head-shaped ball with eyes and nostrils that bulge out when you squeeze. Noel sent it to me as a joke before finals’ week last year, and I’ve kept it with me ever since. It kind of grosses me out, but—call me superstitious—I really do feel less stressed when I use it.

Mr. Grump’s eyes widen as he looks at the ball for a second, then looks up at me. “What’s this?” he says.

“Stress ball,” I say, probably unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “I meant, what are you doing with it?”

“What is anyone doing with a stress ball?” I say, shrugging. “It’s for when I feel…you know.Stressed.”

Mr. Grump’s eyes narrow slightly, and he just stares at me for a second with an expression I can’t decipher. When his attention swings back to the contents of my bag, I release my breath, my heart going a little faster than normal. It’s something about those eyes, green and intense.

He digs further, and I know what he’s going to find. Sure enough, he pulls out a worn, folded piece of paper. He doesn’t seem to care that it’s none of his business; he unfolds the paper anyway, revealing an illustration of Rosie the Riveter. It’s the picture Noel sent with the stress ball; Rosie’s name has been replaced with mine. The picture has been in my purse since Noel gave it to me. It’s a sort of visual pep talk, and I look at it sometimes when I’m feeling anxious or upset.

Mr. Grump stares at it for a second but doesn’t say anything. Then he folds the paper and puts it back in my bag, followed by all the other things he unceremoniously took out.

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