One: Barnaby is a fucking creep. He’s tech- and computer-obsessed, which is fine, except I’d once caught his drone outside my balcony window, filming me.
Two: He never leaves the house. Ever. Since COVID, he’s locked himself away, only occasionally going downstairs for deliveries, which, again, isfine, but I always seem to be the one who ends up with those damn deliveries. I’ll sometimes get a call from the front desk to collect boxes that aren’t mine, and I swear Barnaby does it on purpose, so I have no choice but to visit him.
Three: If Deacon finds out I went to see Barnaby, he’ll be furious. When I’d told my almost-ex about the droneincident, they’d had a strongly worded conversation, which I’m fairly sure ended with more than one threat of violence.
Four: I look nice today. I’m going out for dinner with my dad in a few hours, and I’ve had my hair done, my makeup looks cute as hell, and Barnaby will somehow see that as for him and flirt with me, despite Deacon’s warnings.
But the pen, Ella. You need the pen.
I do need the pen. The pen is essential.
The pen means another best-seller.
“Maybe I could climb down?” I suggest, my lips twisting in trepidation at the mere suggestion.
Please try. I’d love to see what happens.
I tap my temple.
“Just do it. Just go.”
Before heading for the door, I pull a sweatshirt over my white sundress. My outfit isn’t exactly revealing, but it’s hot outside, so my chest, arms and legs are on display. Barnaby Fisher is seeing as little of me as humanly possible.
I head downstairs. There’s usually a Post-it stuck to the wood that says, “LEAVE DELIVERIES OUTSIDE—DO NOT KNOCK WILL NOT ANSWER (unless you’re Ella Gibson)” but it isn’t there.
I knock.
As I wait, my phone hums.
Dad: Still on for tonight? No pressure, baby.
I smile. Leave it up to my dad to know I might want to cancel, bury myself in writing, and not feel guilty about it. He knows me better than anyone and understands my obsession with my work, just like I understand his. But I want to see him. My first draft is finally finished, and somefresh air will help me get perspective. Maybe even fill in some inevitable plot holes.
Me: We’re still on. I’ll even pay!
Dad: are you my daughter
I smile again. Asshole.
Then I frown, because I’m still standing in front of a closed door.
“Barnaby, it’s me,” I call out, rolling my eyes. I expect quickening footsteps and the door to fly open, but nothing. I bang the flat of my first on the wood. “I just dropped something on your balcony! Open up! Two seconds of your precious time!”
Nothing.
I increase the intensity of my knocking. “I know you’re in there, you little gremlin.Open up!”
Probably not wise to insult him before you ask for a favor, Ella.
Screw niceties. I hammer against the door in rhythm with his name.
“Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby, Barna—” The door flies open, and I blink.
A man in a shirt and suit pants stands in the doorway, glaring down at me. He has black hair, messy in an I-woke-up-gorgeous kind of way, and eyes so dark I can’t distinguish between the iris and the pupil. He towers over me. And I mean,towers. My dad is six four, so I’m used to tall men, but this guy is tall. And built. He almost fills the doorframe.
I wish he could fill me.
Um, think about Deacon, your boyfriend?
