Page 16 of The Voicemail

“Where’s Alex?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Am I allowed to go there?”

His face stays neutral. “Of course. Do you need help remembering where it is?”

I look him up and down before I say, “I think I can manage.”

I slam the door in his face and hurriedly get dressed. I grab my phone and see that it’s later than I’m comfortable with. Plus I’m not in my usual part of town. I’ll have to grab something quick before I head to work.

The rich, bitter smell of coffee draws me down the hallway. The residence feels a little less oppressive in daylight. The dark wood reads less overpowering now, more elegant. And I’m not too exhausted to take in the details.

A long living room with windows looking over the city. Bookshelves full of expensive-looking books. Fresh flowers on a side table. Not roses, thank God. Security panels discreetly built into the walls. Cameras in the corners of the common spaces, small enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice them. I probably wouldn’t if we didn’t have similar ones at the gallery.

Alex is in the kitchen, standing at the island in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. There’s a faint bruise along his jaw where my stalker hit him last night. He looks like he’s already put in a full day and enjoyed it.

By comparison, I feel like a drowned rat. I forgot to pack a hair dryer, and that’s the one amenity he doesn’t stock. His clients must not worry much about hair care.

He’s already nursing a mug of coffee, and when he sees me, his eyes move over me once, quick and controlled.

“Morning,” he says casually, like we’re old friends and not near-strangers.

“Am I being guarded?” I blurt out.

He picks up his mug and smirks. “Good morning to you, too, Alex,” he says in response.

“Good morning,” I grumble. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

At least he doesn’t pretend. I step into the kitchen. “Why?”

“Because someone tried to break into your apartment last night.”

“I remember.”

“Then that answers the question.”

“It doesn’t answer why there was a man outside my bedroom door.”

“He guards the service elevator.” Alex shrugs.

“Oh. Okay,” I answer lamely.

I stare at him while he drinks his coffee.

“Adriana made breakfast,” he says. “Eggs, toast, fruit. Whatever you want.”

“I want to go home.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“Your door is being repaired,” he says. “It should be done in a few hours.”

“Fine,” I nod. “Then I want to go to work.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not happening today.”