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I take another long sip of wine, like that’ll help, and open my laptop. The shiny new computer still makes me smile, my pride and joy, second only to the furry beast who insists on nudging up under my other arm.
“Okay, okay. Just let me eat.”
I’m three bites into the least spicy Midwestern chili ever packaged when the intercom buzzer on the wall goes off.
I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth, and listen again.
Sometimes, it’s just a rando buzzing the wrong apartment.Usually, it’s the wrong door. I don’t have visitors.
But the buzzer goes off again, and this time there’s a voice with it.
“Miss Winkley? Are you in?”
Dexter Rory.
Holy shit.
I shove the laptop aside and look around.
I never should’ve let him know my building.
The whole apartment’s a disaster with clothes strewn everywhere and dirty dishes soaking in the sink and cat hair plastering everything.
Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap—
“Junie?” he calls again through the speaker. “I know you’re pissed at me. Hell, I’d be pissed, too, but I need to talk to you. There’s been a development.”
Oh my God.
If the moon were falling into the Earth, somehow, I think he’d announce it in the dullest, most nonthreatening way possible.
I bolt up as Catness scatters, stabbing at the intercom button.
“Come on up,” I say, trying to sound cool. “The elevator’s acting up today, so you’ll have to take the stairs.”
“Got it.”
The stairs and long, cramped hallways in this old building take me about four minutes to navigate from bottom to top. Maybe longer if I’m walking slowly like today.
But Dexter’s devilishly fit, which means it’ll probably take him half the time.
Not nearly long enough to do anything about the bombed-out mess I live in.
Still, I flit around the apartment like a panicked hummingbird, scooping up my dirty clothes and chucking them in the bedroom.
Bathroom’s a mess as well, with hair still stuck to the shower walls from this morning, but that can’t be helped. Hopefully he won’t need it.
I’m on my way into the bedroom with the last of my clothes and a blanket I think Catness graced with a hairball this morning when he knocks on the door.
Of course, his knock is deafening.
I finger comb my hair into place without bothering to check the bathroom mirror. I probably should have changed, too, but it’s too late for that now.
I just have to hope he doesn’t mind me looking as frazzled as I feel.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door.
There he is, magnificent and bulging at the seams in a suit that’s ever-so-slightly crumpled, looking even more intense than usual.
