Illogical logic, but whatever.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say abruptly because she’s not leaving, and I’m not going to babysit her all damn day until Aleksei gets back.
As soon as we step inside the elevator, I open the security feed on my phone to see if Aleksei really left or if he’s hiding out in my apartment—and my heart pounds a fast triple beat when the front camera shows Syn and another girl standing at the entrance door to the bell tower.
Syn is…here?
The woman I’ve been stalking is apparently stalking me as well. How else could she have found out where I lived? Tristan wouldn’t have told her, especially after our last encounter when he basically threatened me to stay away from her. Something I can’t do. Any half-adept psychologist would know my reasons for being so drawn to this particular girl have to do with the blue-eyed girl I can’t forget.
When the elevator doors open on the ground floor, I move to the side, so Syn can’t see me through the glass. “There’s a girl with red hair right outside. Her name is Synthia. Tell her to take the elevator to the third floor. I’ll be waiting.”
The brunette acknowledges me with a sharp jerk of her chin. “Tell Aleksei to call me later.”
I won’t, but I nod yes, then quietly slip out and head for the stairs that are only accessible if you know the code. I wait until the door secures behind me before turning the volume up on the security feed, then take the stairs two at a time in a rush to get up to my apartment.
“If he tries anything, I still have that video and will happily post it on every social media outlet known to man,” the girl with Syn says.
“Wrong twin,” Syn replies.
“They’re twins. In the eyes of an everyday viewer, they’re interchangeable.”
What the fuck has Aleksei done now? Did he talk to Syn after I specifically told him to stay away from her?
I hear the brunette’s voice say, “Asshole just kicked me out right after I went down on him. Didn’t even get me off first. Hold on. Which one of you is Synthia?”
I mess up the code when I get to my floor, and it takes three attempts before the light on the panel turns green and the lock disengages.
Going into the living room, I make sure the sofa cushions are stacked just right on each end, then do the same to the magazines on the coffee table.
Shit. Clothes. Before I can go grab a clean shirt from my closet, a single ding chimes, the elevator doors pry wide, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with a wide-eyed Syn. She looks beautiful…and terrified…and I swear to God, I think she’s checking me out. Not in an afraid way but in an interested one.
Say something, dumbass.
“I have to say, I was very surprised to see you standing outside.”
“Not as surprised as I am,” Syn replies.
Coming farther into the living room, she takes in my space for the first time, and I want to know how things look from her perspective. Does she like the furniture I chose, or the neutral colors?
I follow along the path her cursory inspection takes. A large leather couch and matching armchairs take up a good amount of the open space. The cream-colored walls help make the roomfeel bigger than it is, and there are a few framed paintings hanging on the walls to add a pop of color. Dark wood beams cross the ceiling and add a touch of rustic to the simple aesthetic. Sunlight streams in through the large floor-to-ceiling window and allows for a gorgeous view of the campus and its immaculately landscaped grounds.
“Does Amato know you’re here?” I highly doubt it, but I’m curious to see if she’ll lie to me.
Syn keeps close to the elevator, as if she’ll bolt at any second. “I’m not here to talk about Tristan.”
“I’ll take that as a no.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink? Sparkling water? I was just about to make breakfast. You can join me.”
I can literally feel her anxiety. It pours off her in waves. “No, thank you. I don’t plan to stay long.” She removes a folded piece of paper from the tiny zipper pocket of her leggings. “Why did you put this in my bag? If you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing a shit job of it.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I haven’t written her anything. Taking the crumpled paper that her shaking hand offers, I gently extricate it from the death grip she has on it.
He knows. Trust no one.
What the fuck?“I didn’t write this.” The warning sets off all sorts of alarm bells, and every protective instinct flares to life, wanting to keep her safe from the unknown.
“You took my bag on the elevator,” she angrily counters.
That’s why she came here? To confront me about something I didn’t do?
