Page 15 of The Fiancée Farce
Just the fiancée I was hoping to hear from.
Gemma wasn’t even in the room with her, and yet for some ungodly reason, her cheeks started to burn.
Do you have multiple fiancées I should know about?
She held her breath, watching those maddening dots dance across the screen as Gemma typed a response.
Just you. I hope.
Something about thatI hopewas oddly encouraging, maybe because it reminded her she wasn’t the only one whose future hinged on this ruse.
Can we meet somewhere?
Gemma’s response was nearly instantaneous.
501 West Highland Drive Apartment 400. See you soon.
Chapter Four
Tansy double-checked the address on her phone.501 West Highland Drive.This was it.
The four-story brick building was located in Upper Queen Anne, right across from Kerry Park, and what it lacked in height it more than made up for in its footprint, occupying an entire block on the north side of the street. A bronze plaque set into the red brick stated that the property, constructed in 1921, had been added to the National Register of Historic Placesandmet the criteria for the Seattle Landmarks Ordinance.
Tansy wiped her palms against her thighs and stopped in front of one of the building’s arched entryways, frowning at the intercom beside the door. Gemma hadn’t mentioned an entry code, but in a building this obviously ritzy, it stood to reason the security would be top-notch. It was a wonder there wasn’t a doorman.
Apartment 400... there it was, the button for Gemma’s unit, located at the very top of the box. Tansy pressed it, wincing at the staticky screech the intercom emitted.
“’lo? Who’s it?”
Bizarre. That didn’t sound like Gemma. Not unless her voice had gotten significantly deeper and far more British overnight.
“Um, hi. I’m not sure if I have the right apartment, but—”
The intercom emitted another piercing shriek before a long, low buzz came from the door. Tansy tried the handle. Open. Minus the voice confusion, so far, so good.
One brief elevator ride later, Tansy stepped out onto the fourth floor, pausing for a moment to get her bearings. The unit numbers descended from left to right, 404, 402, and there, at the end of the hall, apartment 400.
Before she could second-guess herself or chicken out, Tansy rapped her knuckles against the front door.
A muffled curse came from inside the apartment, followed by a yelp, then the thump of approaching footsteps. The door was thrown open, revealing a bare, heavily tattooed, light brown chest that led down into dangerously low-rise jeans.
“Pizza’s here, Gem!” the man who had answered the door shouted. He turned, looked Tansy up and down, and frowned. “Never mind, not pizza. Just some chick selling something. Proselytizing? I don’t know. Unless it’s sex, drugs, or alcohol, there’s no soliciting allowed in the building, love.”
Tansy frowned. “They allow that here?”
“Mm, doubtful. Anyway”—he began to shut the door—“have a nice day.”
Tansy leaped forward, flattening her palm against the door. “Wait, no. I’m not selling—”
“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice person, but I couldn’t care less for your religion.” He kept his grip on the doorknob, using his other hand to shoo her away. “Go away, now.”
“I’m not here to convert you.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth, considering her through narrowed eyes. “All right, you’ve piqued my curiosity. I’ll bite. Go on.” He beckoned with one hand. “Give me your spiel.”
“My—my spiel?” Tansy didn’t have a spiel.
“Yeah, you know—if I don’t subscribe to your religion and eschew my heretical, hedonistic, queer, and fabulous lifestyle posthaste, there’ll be nothing but hellfire and damnation in my future. All brimstone and eternal doom down under. That spiel.”
