Page 11 of Giddy Up, Daddy

“I’m looking for Blakely.”

The older man eyed him suspiciously. “Who’re you?”

“Is she home?”

“I’m not her damn butler. Her apartment is upstairs. But she’s not supposed to have visitors.”

What?

“Why not?”

“House rules. My house. My rules.”

Ahh. He was beginning to understand. “You own the house and rent her an apartment?”

“Not for long. Go around the back. There are stairs.”

The door shut in his face.

What did he mean? Not for long?

None of your business. You’re just here to return her sweater.

He should have gotten one of his workers to do this, but he’d wanted to check in on her. She’d looked so upset as she’d run out of the house.

So here he was, walking up a set of rickety stairs that had seen better days to deliver her sweater.

He knocked on the door, and there was silence. Okay, perhaps he should just leave it out here. But the image of her upset face was burned in his brain.

He’d just try one more time.

This time, he heard someone moving before the door opened. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks blotchy, and she was hunched over with a blanket around her shoulders.

She looked like she had the weight of the world weighing her down.

Was this just about a broken teacup and a grouchy old man?

“I’m packing! What do you . . . oh, sorry. I thought you were Mr. Brandt,” she said.

Stafford frowned. Packing? “Is that the grouchy old man downstairs?”

“Um, yeah. You met him, then?”

“Yes, he seems delightful. Why are you packing? What did he mean that you’re leaving soon? Are you moving into another apartment?”

She blinked at him. “Um, what are you doing here?”

Okay. He didn’t actually have the right to ask her those questions, he guessed.

Maybe you would if you were her boss.

“I brought back your sweater.”

He held it out to her.

“Oh, thanks.”

She reached for it, but he suddenly snatched it back. “What the fuck is wrong with your hands?”

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