Page 61 of Off the Wall

“She’s at her parents’ house until tomorrow. They’re finalizing wedding plans.”

“She’s getting married?”

“In two weeks.” I try to smile at this bit of happiness, but the result probably looks more like a wince. When my teeth begin to chatter, Cash’s face turns grim.

“You’re freezing.” His voice is gruff.

“You’re not wrong.” I try calling Keeley, but the phone goes straight voicemail. Contacting East makes no sense. Sure, he’s still got a key to the apartment, but he’s an hour and a half away and he wouldtotallyfreak out. “I’ll just go tothe shop,” I mumble. “Violet will let me stay with her. I can’t bike there right now, but I can get a ride share, and?—”

“Absolutely not.” His eyes flash.

“Are you saying you’ll drive me?”

He meets my gaze. “I’m saying we need to get you warm. Now.” He offers me his arm—a noticeable shift from Warren’s ham-handed grip—and gently steers me down the hallway. We’re going to his place, I realize. Alone. But I’m too drained, emotionally and physically, to even pretend to object. And the truth is, I feel totally safe with him.

Plus I kind of want to see his apartment.

He enters first, leaving the door open so I can follow him in. I’m guessing he wants me to feel safe. Not cornered. I stand in the entryway while he flips a few switches, and the whole place floods with light.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

He crosses the room, shuts the curtains, and disappears into his bedroom. While he’s gone, I take a speedy inventory of the space. Black leather sofa and matching armchairs. Glass coffee table. Dark wood dining set. Stainless steel appliances. The rest of the kitchen is all subway tile and white granite. Everything is clean and streamlined.

Cash Briggs is a man without clutter in his life.

Unless you count the emotional clutter I’m bringing right now.

He quickly returns with a pair of large sweat pants and an enormous hoodie. “These will be too big on you,” he says, looking chagrined. “But at least they’re dry.” He hands the clothes over, and the sweet scent of fabric softener rises between us. “You can change in there.” He nods toward the bathroom. His apartment is the one-bed model, and the only bathroom has two entrances: one from his room and one off the living area. “You can shower, if you want,” he adds. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“Thanks.” I bob my head. “So much.”

“I’ll run down and find your keys,” he tells me, moving past me to the door. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

I believe you.

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, and I’m alone in Cash Briggs’s apartment.

I slowly make my way to the closest mirror, gleaming on the wall across from the dining table. I’malmosthoping I’ll see him in the reflection. But when I lift my gaze to the glass, it’s just me. Pale skin. Hollow eyes above bruise-like circles. Drenched hair.

Yikes.

Padding to the bathroom, I quickly strip off my sweater, then peel out of my skirt, blouse, bra, and underwear. That’s a good first step, but I don’t think my brain can handle being in Cash Briggs’s shower. I’ve been seeing things that don’t exist in so many other mirrors in the building.

My imagination’s already on overdrive. The scent of Cash’s body wash just might make me lose what’s left of my mind.

So after slinging my wet clothes over the towel rack, I slip on Cash’s hoodie and sweats. His clothes swallow more than half my body. Even with the waistband rolled three times and the drawstring cinched tight, the cuffs of the sweats still drag on the floor. But the fabric is cottony and soft against my skin, and I’m warm and dry.

That’s what matters.

Cash was in such a hurry to find my keys, he didn’t bother to change. So I move to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove. At least when he gets back from the courtyard, he can warm up with a cup of hot tea. Or whatever it is he keeps in his cupboards that requires a kettle.

For a moment, I’m tempted to peek in his pantry, but I’m afraid once I start snooping, I won’t be able to stop. Then I’llprobably end up in his bedroom, rolling on his sheets and sniffing his pillows. Not a good idea.

Plucking my phone from my purse, I pad into the living room and drop onto the sofa to wait for Cash. First things first, though—I text Jemma.

Me

Hey, Jemma. I’m going to call you tomorrow, and I’ll fill out the whole post-date questionnaire later, but I wanted to let you know Warren Snuze is wrong for Swipe Rite. You should probably check in with his other matches to see how their dates went. Either way, he turned out to be a huge frog for me. Hopefully all princes from now on. Please?

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