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The inside isn’t much better and I try not to cringe or judge. The carpet is old and worn, practically threadbare in places, and a musty smell hangs in the air. The dusty light fixture has two burned-out bulbs and I sneeze.
“Bless you,” Hannah says as I automatically start toward the elevator. “Oh, ah, I usually take the stairs.”
“Why?” I ask, almost not wanting to know the answer.
“I don’t trust that elevator. It’s gotten stuck one too many times. And, I’m only on the second floor, so it’s not too bad.”
This whole place is bad, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. It’s none of your business, Vin, I tell myself. Don’t worry about it.
Easier said than done, though. For whatever reason, Hannah is becoming my responsibility, a priority, and I want her to be safe and well taken care of.
Just like I figured, the front door to her apartment is still ajar and she immediately pauses. I walk past her and push the door all the way open. I scan the small living room area and adjacent kitchen. Nothing looks out of place. But, it’s a sad, little place. With just a couch covered by a thin afghan and a worn-looking recliner, my frown deepens. A glance to the left shows me a miniscule kitchen that can barely fit a fridge and a very small table and two chairs.
Hannah Everson deserves so much better than this place. But what am I supposed to do about it?
“Wait here while I check the rest of the place out,” I tell her and stride down the hallway. There’s a small bathroom that you can barely turn around in and then one more doorway. I step through it and see it’s her bedroom. A worn comforter covered in pink and green flowers covers the bed and I stalk forward and pull open the closet. It’s nearly empty. A handful of hangers hold threadbare clothing and three pairs of shoes sit on the floor.
Shit. My chest tightens as it occurs to me that my angel has even less money than I realized. A part of me wants to immediately wire a million bucks into her account. Hell, I wouldn’t even miss it. Besides, Enzo will make me that much money this year alone.
Running a hand along the top of a scarred dresser, I see it’s missing a knob. I don’t like Hannah living here. Not one fucking bit. But what can I do to change that? I wonder.
“Vin? Is everything okay?”
I turn and see her step into the room, a wary look on her beautiful face.
No, it’s not okay, I want to tell her. You’re living in a shithole and you should be in a mansion.
Instead, I turn to her and force a smile. “Yeah. The front door lock is broken, though. I’m going to send someone over to fix that right away, okay?”
“You don’t have?—”
“Consider it done,” I interrupt, my voice gentle, but firm.
“Okay. Um, thanks.”
She starts wringing her hands like she did before and I reach out and grab them, putting an end to the nervous gesture. “C’mon and walk me out.”
Touching her feels so right, way too good, but I force myself to let go. Later. In the meantime, we walk back to the flimsy front door and I can’t help but frown again. I stalk over to the tiny kitchen table, grab a chair and drag it over. “After I leave, wedge this under the doorknob. Don’t open it again until the repairman comes, okay?”
“Okay.”
After getting her phone number and programming it into my phone, I have to physically force myself to leave. “I’ll be back at six o’clock,” I remind her.
“We don’t need to go anywhere fancy or anything,” she says, looking a little nervous.
A flash of her limited wardrobe fills my head. “Don’t worry about that. Wear whatever you’re comfortable in and I’ll see you soon.”
“Thank you, Vin,” Hannah says.
I nod then make myself turn and walk away. I have no idea why this is so damn hard, but everything inside of me wants to take her with me. Leaving her here doesn’t sit well with me and I vow to change it.
How, though? I wonder again.
On the drive home, I call up one of the family security guards and tell him Hannah’s address. I don’t think Creed will cause any more problems but, just in case, I want someone stationed outside of Hannah’s apartment to keep watch.
Getting her out of this neighborhood and that awful apartment is my first priority. Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I remember the new job I’m starting Monday and how I’m going to need an assistant.
Perfect.
