Page 11 of The Next Door Billionaire's Deception

I close and open the window slightly. The bird jerks backward and flies off, heading right toward one of the branches of the nearby oak tree. I touch the spot it pecks. Nothing but a faint scratch. Taking a step further, I peek through the window and get a glimpse of robins, more of them singing melodious tones and ransacking the environment, perhaps waiting for another reflection of theirs to start a fight with.

“Looks like it wasn’t alone, after all.”

Through the window, I spot a police patrol vehicle packed somewhere outside. Beside the old-looking coffeehouse, a plump pot-bellied policeman converses with a tall blonde with a low bob. She responds with more nods than words as the policeman scribbles things on the tiny notepad in his hands.

Inching backward, I perceive the pungent smell of something burning. My eyes widen in panic as it dawns on me.

My burrito!

I dash toward the kitchen. Too late. My burrito’s ruined. I stare at the charred remains, shoulders slumping.

There goes my lunch.

It's been five days now since I moved in. And despite the infrequent feeling of being watched by God-knows-who, I'm beginning to love this part of Brooklyn. The street booms with life all around the clock. There are always yells from kids playing in puddles, horns from impatient drivers whoosh from speeding buses, and the minute bells of bicycles hurrying beside the sidewalks. I don’t particularly enjoy spotting police patrol vehicles every day, but I've not heard rumors of a burglary or other disturbing crime within the neighborhood. The FBI was right; this is the right place for me. At least until everything blows over.

Everything has been put in place – everything except my study. After the movers fromPharst Moversfinished their job, Celine helped me out with a few other things I would never have done single-handedly. She set up my wardrobe and spent a long time arranging my clothes, something I’ve always sucked at. But I needed no help with the set-up of my study. It’s something I have to handle alone since I have quite several confidential documents in it, the ones I wouldn't let a third party get a glimpse of.

Tossing the burnt burrito into the bin, I settle for making a mug of coffee and head into my study. My table’s laden with books and files. Celine would be upset by the mess. I reach for the biggest book on the table. It’s the most voluminous book on my bookshelf and pulls a weight that can leave a kid at the library panting in exhaustion.

I take a sip from my coffee and study the bookshelf, searching for the best section to fit the book into.Businessis perfect. And this book is the most reliable when I need to research some business legalities without the help of Jason Murdoch, my attorney. The book was the perfect reference I needed when Vibrant Corp struck a merger deal with my firm. However, I'm expecting three other additions. They’re arriving this morning, and even if I'm short of groceries, they have to land before I go shopping.

Intermittently, a mail notification pops up on my laptop. I peruse the mail carefully. It’s fromBeetle Courier,confirming that I have received the package they delivered. The mail states:signed by you.

Signed by me? What are they talking about?

I search for my phone. Receiving the package is one of the reasons I chose not to go grocery shopping. I wanted to be home when the deliveryman arrived. How did I receive reception mail when the deliveryman never showed up anywhere near my apartment?

Their customer support reps may give a better explanation. They have to. While my hand is halfway through typingBeetleon the search tab of my contact list, the doorbell goes.

Before the human-length mirror beside the fireplace, I study my face. It looks dull, like I’m just a hair’s breadth from falling back asleep. My tiny bun has gone loose, and the ends rest below my breasts. I lift several strands, grimacing at the sight of the split ends. It'll take some time to have it remade, but I need to get my package. It’s all that matters now.

Someone knocks on the door.

I head toward the door, readjusting the ropes of my floral nightie. Whether by a deliveryman or a janitor, I hate being seen unkempt and haggard. I open the door, and I take a step back. I try to say a word, but my lips won't part. I was expecting the deliveryman, not the man before me, smiling sheepishly with a seemingly heavily-wrapped carton clenched in his hands.

“Good Morning, Melissa!” he says in a tone that’s way too chirpy for mornings like this.

“Um, what are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?” He stares at me quizzically. “You don’t look too well.”

Gee, thanks.

“Mornings aren’t my best.” I clear my throat. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this early-morning visit?”

“Did I wake you?”

I wave it off.

“Hey. It's fine. Call it payback.”

His lopsided grin brings a small smile to my face.

“Touché.”

My eyes rest on the package. But I don't want to believe what I'm thinking. Then my eyes travel back to his face. His sleek jet-black side-part hairstyle matches his black leather jacket and rimless polarized sunglasses. He looks like an upgraded version of the Richard Burnes I saw in the hallway when I moved in.

He stretches his hands, handing me the box.

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