Page 9 of Ten Rules for Faking It
Parking across the street from her apartment building he grabbed the dessert and got out of the car.Maybe you should call her, let her know you’re coming. I’m not visiting. Just dropping off some deliciousness and seeing for myself that she’s okay.
He hesitated after only a step. Everly didn’t strike him as a “drop in anytime” sort of person. Leaning against his vehicle, he thumbed a text.
Okay if I drop by to talk to you?
A couple of kids were drawing chalk rainbows on the sidewalk. It made him smile and think of Manhattan. It wasn’t something he saw there since there were too many people hurrying along the pavement to get any good sidewalk space.
There were lots of things—like crowds—that he didn’t miss about living in a big city. Streets like this one, lined with blossoming trees and a sense of calm, made him think about how nice it’d be to come home every night to a place like this. Unfortunately, towns like this didn’t come with high-powered firms that specialized in corporate communications.
His text tone signaled.
Okay. Should I be worried?
No.
Tucking his phone in his pocket, he crossed the street, passed the kids playing, and took the couple of steps up to the entryway landing.
Buzzing number 3, he waited.
“Hello?” Everly’s voice sounded scratchy through the speaker.
It took him a second to find his voice. “It’s Chris.”
The pause made his breath hitch until she asked, “Pine?”
His lips twitched. “No.”
“Evans?”
“Wrong again.” He glanced around to make sure no one was watching this ridiculous exchange.
“Pratt?”
“Let me in, Everly.”
“Oh. You do know my first name.”
Stopping himself from smacking his head against the side of the house, he sighed, pressed the button again. “Of course I do.”
The buzzer sounded, and he pulled the door open. The house was charming with a wide staircase leading to a couple of upper units. His grandmother lived in a heritage home just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Chris hadn’t seen her in too long, but he’d always loved going for dinners there. They were simple and delicious. Before he’d passed, his grandfather insisted on gathering as a whole unit at least twice a month.
Grandmother never allowed business discussions at the table, and though she had more money than the San Verde bank, she didn’t care much for “things.” She believed in family, forgiveness, and hard work. Most of that had rubbed off on Chris and his brothers. The jury was still out on his sister. Chris always felt close to his grandmother. She saw through smoke screens others didn’t and knew, unlike the other men, or women, in his family, he craved what she and his grandfather had shared before his passing.
Shaking off his maudlin thoughts, he took the stairs up and veered to the right. Everly’s door swung open before he knocked.
“What are you doing here?” She was dressed in a pair of pink sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, and her long, chestnut-brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail. As usual,her face was free of makeup, but even without it, her skin was flawless. Her blue eyes watched him warily. She had the most expressive gazes. He could tell when she was nervous or excited just from a glance.Maybe that’s a sign you’re paying too much attention.What would it take to make her lower her shield? To open up.
His arms itched to wrap her up in a hug, but he wasn’t sure if she’d accept it, if it would be over the line, or if he’d be doing it more for himself. Sticking to safer territory, Chris thrust the brown paper bag toward her.
Her eyes narrowed. She took a small step back. “What’s that?”
He smiled, amused by her wariness over something so simple. “Dessert.”
Her eyes snapped up, and she scowled at him. As she turned and padded into her apartment, she said, “I don’t like birthday cake.”
“I heard. That’s not what this is.” He let himself in and shut the door. He’d never been in her apartment—there’d never been a reason.Probably isn’t one now.
Glancing around, he saw it was simple and quiet with small splashes of color—teal cushions on the gray couch, a pale pink blanket that looked like she’d been wrapped up in it draped over the back. The television was paused on a show he didn’t recognize. Light filtered through the gaps in the closed blinds. It made sense that his apartment here didn’t have much character, but in this tiny space, Everly created a stronger atmosphere of comfort, ofhome,than his apartment in New York, which he was temporarily leasing out but had owned for years. There was a hallway to the left and a dividing wall to the right. He assumed one went to the kitchen and the other to the bedroom and bathroom. She headed to the right.
