Page 30 of Reckless Devotion

“Strong words for someone who maimed a sweet old man!” We glare at each other for a beat, and then another. He lifts one brow slowly, and before either of us knows what is coming, we’re laughing.

“Sweet?” Chase’s laugh is a deep and velvety thing, so low it’s almost a rumble.

“Okay, not sweet,” I admit, trying to shake off my traitorous smile. “But old.”

“What is that guy’s deal, anyway?” he asks, using one broad hand to rake through the dark, loose curls on top of his head.

“I honestly have no idea. He’s just…” I twist my lips up, looking for the right descriptor. “Curmudgeonly.”

“Ooft, great word.” Chase grins, and a moment so at ease it feels glaringly out of place settles between us.

I swiftly ruin it, because what the fuck? Jamming my finger down on the little matching button on my side, I hope it works the same for me. “Norman?”

“Yes, ma’am?” the smooth voice responds immediately.

“Change of plan. Both me and Mr. Walker are going to my apartment building, and then we’reboth”—I shoot Chase a meaningful glower—“going to the hospital.”

True to his employment, the driver tentatively replies, “Mr. Walker, sir?”

The man in question scrutinizes me openly without an ounce of shame, seeming to measure me in some way, before dipping his head in a gesture not born of this century. “As the lady wishes, Norman.”

***

“Jeez, there is so much stuff in here!”

Floral print armchairs squish into the small space, corralled by dark bookcases that overflow with old novels and ornaments, some cubbies stuffed full of paperwork or mail instead. Everything in this room feels slightly disheveled, and a distinct whiff of damp scents the air.

“Is he a war veteran?” Chase asks from across the room, the back of his head visible as he examines the contents of thick velvet cases laying open on a console table. He keeps his hands in his pockets, but leans over to get a better look.

I pick my way across the brown carpet and join him, taking in the glittering medals nestled into silk cushions in a neat little line. In comparison to everything else in the room, these are polished and cared for.

“I don’t actually know a thing about him,” I muse aloud as the realization dawns on me. I have a pretty good relationship with all of my neighbors—it’s hard not to while living practically on top of each other. Then again, it’s hard to get to know someone who insists on presenting such an impossibly prickly demeanor.

I frown as I take another look around the room, and as I do so, Lord Bartholemew Whiskerington III winds himself around my ankles, meowing noisily and pausing to smack his whiskered mouth in satisfaction—having just demolished twopouches of wet food. Yes, that is really his name. No, I cannot explain why. Except to say, he’s British?

Spotting a bureau pushed into one corner laden with photo frames, I carefully untangle myself from the cat’s orange stripey tail and make my way over, dodging the pile of old newspapers stacked next to an armchair and the metal walker which lays abandoned there too.

The photos—all black and white—display a young man and a very pretty woman. Her pale skin radiates through the image, eyes crinkled happily and her brunette hair curled neatly to her head.

“Holy handsome!” I pick up one of the same couple on the beach, wearing old fashioned striped bathing suits and sitting in the sand next to a detailed sandcastle, and bring it closer to my face. “Mr. Clay used to be afox!”

“He’s probably single, if you’re interested.” Chase appears at my side, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling as he leans over my shoulder to take a look, that woodsy smoke scent fighting to invade my nostrils.

“And how do you knowI’msingle?” I shoot back, ignoring the obvious teasing.

He lifts one shoulder, a signature smirk crooking one side of his full mouth. “I have a pretty good instinct for these things.”

I roll my eyes and stick my finger in my mouth, making a pretend retching noise—something about this man turns me into a petulant child. I’m rewarded by his own sparkling eyes taking a leisurely tour of their sockets. Placing the photo carefully back on the table, I note that it is also free of the cloying dust that coats every other item of furniture in this place. Just before I turn away, I spot an open notepad balancing on the corner, a word scrawled into it snagging my attention.

“What the…” I snatch it up and scan the words and times that form a log, my mouth dropping open.

“What is it?”

I turn the notepad wordlessly in his direction.

Pepper: 7.35AM

Sunny: 8.20AM