Chapter 8
Four a.m. was early. “Stupid early,” as her dad called it. But Crickitt managed to rise even if she didn’t shine. A cup and a half of coffee later, she was reasonably certain she’d buttoned her shirt properly.
She’d just finished brushing her teeth when a knock came from her front door. She gave her puffy reflection one last glance before swiping a dash of soft pink gloss across her lips and hurrying to get it.
Shane stood on her front porch in the waning moonlight, looking too good for six in the morning. Pressed suit, polished shoes, hair styled in damp waves.
“Good morning.” He flashed her a billionaire-worthy smile, one that had her thankful for the sturdiness of the door frame. “I thought you might need this.” He held out a paper coffee cup, a familiar green logo emblazoned on one side. “I called Keena to find out your regular order. Caramel soy latte with extra whipped cream.”
She accepted the cup, speechless for a second. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, I aim to please,” he said with a grin.
There was a distracting thought. “Um…do you want to come in while I grab my things?”
“Sure.” Shane stepped into her apartment, and she instantly regretted inviting him in. He looked out of place among her secondhand treasures, like a fine work of art at a garage sale.
He followed her into the living room, eyeing her furniture as he sipped his coffee. She tucked the manila folder into her canvas mailbag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
“No tour?” he asked.
She clutched the strap of her bag, flicking a longing look at her front door. “Oh, you don’t want to see my little place,” she said, intimidated by the idea of showing it to him. She could imagine what his house looked like. He probably lived in a sprawling mansion filled with fine rugs and leather furniture, and art costing a hundred times her salary.
“You don’t want to show it to me?” He picked up a small porcelain chimpanzee covering his eyes with his hands. Gesturing to its mate, a chimpanzee covering his ears, he asked, “Where’s Speak No Evil?”
“Missing,” she said.
“Hmm.” He set the ape back on the shelf. “Have you tried milk cartons?”
There it was again, his playful side. “Not yet,” she said through a soft laugh. “They’re from the seventies, I think. I found the two of them at a thrift store a long time ago, but I have yet to locate the third. I check eBay every once in a while, and yard sales, but”—she shrugged—“no luck.”
“Why not toss them and buy a new, complete set?”
Crickitt lifted her chin. “They’re not worthless just because they’re incomplete.” Besides, they’d been with her for a dozen years, had survived three moves and any clumsy attempt she’d made to dust around them. Which was more than she could say for her ex-husband. She plucked the figurine from Shane’s hand, ignoring the tingle in her fingers as she brushed against his skin. “I’ll find him one day,” she murmured quietly.
Shane took a leisurely gander around her living room before stopping on her face. She shifted on her feet but refused to look away. “We have a few minutes,” he said. “You sure about that tour?”
Ten minutes later they were in the limousine on their way to Columbus. “I don’t get it,” Shane said. He sat in the seat facing her, his back to the privacy panel shutting out the driver.
“What don’t you get?” Crickitt wrung her hands. What comment would he have about her hodgepodge apartment? Her decorating style ranged from contemporary to country, the embodiment of a patchwork quilt. There was a charcoal sketch of a bowl of fruit in her kitchen, an oversize black-and-white James Dean poster in her bathroom, and her guest bedroom was a homage to wicker furniture. She’d bet he couldn’t choose which room to be most appalled by.
“You get a soy milk latte with whipped cream,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, taking a moment to shift gears. “I do.”
“Why do you do that?”
“I don’t like milk, unless it’s whipped cream.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I got a strange glance from the barista this morning.”
She blinked at the cup in her hand. “You picked up the coffee?”
“Yeees.”
“I thought you had people to do that for you.” Isn’t that what rich people did? Hire others to run their errands?
“People?” he asked, bemused. “Well, every once in a while I stoop to do my own bidding.”