Page 14 of Sirens
Trent’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his crisply starched collar. “Your call.”
Glancing down at the creased cuffs of his pants, she noted the Gucci slides on his socked feet.
His indoor shoes—she’d deadass bet her Neumann U 87 Ai Set Large-Diaphragm Condenser Microphone on it.
Maggie stepped out of her heels and placed them in one of the available spots in the pristinely ordered rows, grateful she’d had the foresight to wear toe panties, but wishing she’d had the presence of mind to get a pedicure.
Not that she’d had that kind of time.
In the twenty-four hours since she’d accidentally lit the ancient bar at Sirens ablaze, she’d had to fill out a small mountain of paperwork, speak with an insurance adjuster, and sit through a millennia-long meeting with a Jurassic gasbag from the Townsend Harbor Historic Development Division accompanied by one Caryn Townsend.
Who, Maggie had decided, would vastly benefit from either a decent dicking down or a solid elbow to the hinge of her jaw. When Gabe had informed her that the platinum-haired former first lady actually used to be much worse, Maggie had crossed herself and pretended to shove a head of garlic down her shirt.
For such a small town, Townsend Harbor was proving to be a hotbed of rather sizeable egos.
“The kitchen’s this way.”
Maggie followed McGarvey down the hallway and couldn’t resist—not that she tried overly hard—stealing a peek at his ass, which was even more perfect than she’d imagined.
And she’d imagined real hard.
So hard, in fact, that she’d had to pick up an extra pack of batteries for the only self-care device she’d bothered to bring with her when she hurriedly left Boston.
But in exactly none of her feverish fantasies had she anticipated that McGarvey’s decorator-ly sensibilities would rival his fashion sense.
Maybe even outstrip them,she thought as he led her past a rustic wooden table adorned with a fresh bouquet of flowers, and into a serene living area that would make Martha Stewart weep rivers of Lanco^me mascara down both buttery cheeks.
Maggie’s gaze swept the room, taking in the tasteful minimalist décor and impeccable mid-century modern furniture. The bookshelves held an array of titles that Maggie suspected had been selected more for their size and color variation than for content.
Unless McGarvey harbored a secret obsession forMykonos,Dali, andFifty Dresses that Changed the World.
No family pictures. No college wrestling trophies or B-movie posters. No gym bag with boxing gloves or a lucky basketball. Not even a junk bowl to collect mail, keys, or pocket contents.
Well, this is no help whatsofuckingever.
Getting to peep McGarvey’s landing pad had been the deciding factor in accepting his invitation. A chance to scour for clues as to who the hell he was and, thereby, what it was he wanted with her.
Because after confirming that Trent McGarvey’s living quarters were just as perfect as the man himself, she knew for damn sure it wasn’t a conquest.
“You could haveat leastrun a vacuum around the place,” Maggie teased, trying to sound casual as they entered the spacious open-concept kitchen. It was just as immaculate as therest of the apartment, with gleaming stainless-steel appliances and neatly arranged utensils.
“I just need to grab a couple things from the pantry,” he said, pointing down a hall off the kitchen. “Be right back.”
It was all the invitation Maggie needed.
Fueled by the same investigative instinct that had led her to peer into windows as soon as she was tall enough to reach them, Maggie began easing open McGarvey’s cupboard doors, glancing at the contents, mentally cataloging anything about him she could glean.
It was, in effect, the same insatiable curiosity that had initially led her to internet sleuthing and, ultimately, starting her podcast.
She just had toknow.
“You should see my sock drawer,” McGarvey said, opening the double-door fridge with a smirk. “It’s a work of art.”
Maggie whirled around, her heart doing the flamenco within her chest.
“Easy, my guy,” she said in a voice far breezier than she felt. “I never look at a man’s sock drawer on the first date.”
“Date?” asked McGarvey from behind the fridge door. “And here I thought I was pretty clear that I just wanted to show you how to make some cocktails.”
