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Laney makes a choking sound beside me.

I ignore her.

“No, ma’am.”

“Shame.”

The woman beside her laughs.

I hear Becks snort as we keep walking.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“Still popular with the ladies, I see.”

“Whatever.” Rumors are just that.

Mostly.

I hit the lock button on the Rover. The horn beeps. Then I hit it again.

Laney stops on the stoop and slowly turns. Looks at the Rover. Looks at me.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You double-locked your car.”

“Habit.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s Chicago.” I shove my keys into my pocket. “Are we seeing this apartment or not?

Her mouth twitches. But thankfully, she lets it go.

The front security door doesn’t latch behind us. I know because I check. Twice. Laney catches me looking.

“Open mind.”

I force my hand away from the door, and I mime zipping my lips.

The hallway smells like damp carpet, old cooking oil, and whatever industrial cleaner somebody used to try to cover both.

The scent takes me somewhere I don’t want it to. For one second, I’m not twenty-eight. An icy chill slides down my spine, nothing to do with the temperature outside. I shove the memory down before it gets any further.

Not today.

The landlord meets us halfway up the stairs, all smiles and apologies about the light on the second-floor landing being out.

“Bulb blew yesterday,” he says, wiping his Cheeto-covered fingers on his dirty tracksuit before sticking out his hand. “Name's Boyd, and you must be Delaney?”

“Ugh, yep. That’s me. Nice to meet you.” She reaches out to shake his hand, but I grab it with mine, squeeze my fingers tightly around hers as a warning, and try to ignore the way her warm palm feels pressed against mine.