I pretend to read for a while and, when that becomes too challenging, I move to the living room and pretend to be entranced by the view.
But all I’m really doing is waiting. For someone to correct the mistake. For someone to notice I don’t belong here.
Failing that, I wait for Micah to return home and tell me what to do.
CHAPTERELEVEN
MICAH
I paint a layer of calm over my other emotions as I emerge from the lift into my apartment. There’s a floral scent in the air and the room is warmer. My mood lightens at the thought of having someone waiting here for me. Even if my first order of business will be to scold them.
My thoughts landed on Crimson more than once during the flight home, imagining how much more she would have enjoyed the visible scenery. The travel back and forth wasn’t the greatest use of my time, especially coming so hard on the heels of my recent extended absence.
Still, I feel better knowing she’s far away from her father and my brother. A text message isn’t the worst betrayal in the world.
She’s perched on the edge of a chair near the window. It’s one I never sit in; like most of the furnishings, they were bought by an interior designer who valued aesthetic over comfort.
Maybe that’s why I spend so much time in the office, out doing fieldwork, or in bed.
“Where’s the phone?” I ask instead of a greeting. Life has taught me to embrace unpleasantness at the first opportunity, put it in the past where it belongs.
“I don’t have a phone.” Crimson winds herself tighter, wrapping her arms around her knees as I sit in the chair opposite. Damn but it’s not built for sitting. A concrete block would offer more comfort. “My father wouldn’t let me have one.”
“I saw your text to Gabriel.”
A crease appears between her brows, eyes like blue pools of sadness. “He showed you?”
The lie only takes a second to form. I don’t want to be the one causing her sadness. Gabriel should take that responsibility. And he is the proximate cause of everything that’s gone wrong in my life lately, so there’s no guilt attached. “Yes. Of course, he showed me. Brothers don’t keep secrets and you’re about to become my wife.”
The fantasy is so distant from reality that I almost chuckle and ruin the act. But I school my features well enough that she accepts it. Her chin tucks even further into her chest.
“I borrowed the phone.”
“Where?” I demand. “How?”
“You said Sebastian would let me pick a code for the lift, but he hasn’t.”
I take her change of tack in stride. “I haven’t talked to him yet.” The disbelief is clear on her face. “We’ll get that sorted tomorrow,” I say, abandoning the chair to stand, towering over her. “Where did you get the phone?”
“I borrowed Warren’s.”
My eyes flick to the bodyguard standing near the stairwell exit. The one who appears as surprised as I am. He pats his pocket and his expression changes to one of guilt.
“Here,” she says, pulling it from her loose sleeve and handing it straight to me.
“Choose your punishment.”
Now her eyes are bright, staring with horror. “W-what?”
“Your punishment.” I say the words slowly, enunciating carefully. “You disobeyed and have to be—”
She jumps to her feet and backs towards the window. For a split second, the glass disappears, and she looks like a suicide about to jump. Terror jumps my heart rate into the stratosphere. Then I shake my head and see the faint reflections on the large panes.
“You never said I couldn’t send a text.”
“Get away from there,” I say, grabbing her arm to drag her closer to me. She appears confused but the quick mirage freaked me out. “And I don’t need to issue an instruction for you to know texting your ex-boyfriend is off limits.”
“I wasn’t texting Gabriel.” When I raise my eyebrows, she concedes, “Well, I did but only because Dad isn’t answering my calls. It’s him I want to speak to.”
