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I have officially checked out of reality.
I sit down next to my stack of clothes and take a deep breath. Then I fold the letter up and grab my phone. I’ve got a bunch of texts and calls from Amelia.
AMELIA:Hey Emma. Just wanted to check if you needed me to spend the night with the kids. It’s eleven now and neither you nor Ben are home.
AMELIA:I’ll take your silence as an affirmative.
AMELIA:I’m gonna have to charge you an extra 10% for the last-minute notice. I hope that’s okay.
AMELIA:Anyway. Goodnight. :smiley face:
I groan, feeling like a complete moron. Amelia probably thinks I’m the world’s worst guardian. And who can blame her? She might be right.
Quickly, I dial her number. “God, Amelia, I’m so, so, so sorry!” I blurt as soon as she answers. “It was just a crazy night. I was working late and then I—”Got fucked into literal unconsciousness by my sex god boss—“… ended up falling asleep at my desk.”
“It’s okay,” she says with an unfazed laugh. “I didn’t actually have plans last night, so it’s all good. I won’t even charge you that extra ten percent.”
“No. Not a chance. You are getting every last cent of that extra ten. You deserve it. I’m so sorry about the terrible communication.”
“You fell asleep. It happens.”
I grimace. She’s being way nicer than I deserve. “Is Ben around?”
Just like that, her politeness vanishes. She’d never say a cross word about anyone, but even she can’t seem to muster up anything nice to say about my brother-in-law. “He didn’t show up last night.”
Ah. That explains her good mood.
“Uh, okay. Copy that. Weird. I’m actually coming back home now. I’ll be there within the hour. Are you okay to stay with the kids ‘til then?”
“No problem, Emma.”
I thank her again and hang up. Grabbing my clothes, I duck back into the master bathroom. The giant tub beckons but I already feel guilty enough for forcing Amelia to pull an all-nighter without notice. So I settle for a quick shower and then step into Ruslan’s walk-in closet, which is double the size of my bedroom.
Man, does it smell good in here.
When I start pressing each shirt to my nose, breathing in that deep, oaky scent, I start to catch creepy stalker vibes—from myself.
Get out now, Emma!
Quickly, I pick out a simple white button-down. It’s about four sizes too big but after I roll up the cuffs and tuck in the front, it actually looks sorta chic. I spend a minute longer than necessary in front of the wall-mounted mirror, trying to avoid all the juvenile thoughts circling around in my head about the fact that I’m wearing Ruslan Oryolov’s shirt on my way to do the world’s boujiest walk of shame.
When I slide into the back seat of the tinted SUV parked out front, my legs bump against a large leather duffel with a note written on a piece of cardstock pinned to the handle.
“Um, hey, Boris?” I ask the driver, who’d introduced himself in a monotone, accented grunt when I stepped out of the penthouse building. “Do you know what this is?”
Boris glances at me over his shoulder. “Boss told me give to you.”
Frowning, I unzip the bag and peek inside. There are three brand new shoeboxes staring back at me, each marked with a name across the front.
Josh.
Caroline.
Reagan.
Could it be…?
I open Josh’s package first to find the most amazing pair of green and black basketball sneakers. Caroline’s pair of leather sneakers are pink and silver. Reagan’s are sequined and multicolored. And the sizes are all perfect.
