Do I answer? Do I pretend no one’s home? Dallas made it clear: until I remember enough that I know who I can and can not trust, it’s better if I stay hidden in his penthouse, kept protected under his wing.
And then I hear it—“Dallas? It’s me”—and there isn’t anything in this world that could stop me from walking over to the door and opening it.
Holy shit.
She’sbeautiful.
Do I know her? No idea. I take her in anyway, not caring one bit that I’m gawking. She’s taller than I am by a few inches, with notable curves that are shown off by a dress that probably costs more than all those clothes Dallas paid Adrian’s wife to pick up for me while I was in the hospital. Her perfectly brown hair—that, on second glance, may or may not be a very good dye job—is styled to show off her slender neck, draped in a pair of classy pulls.
I’m wearing a sweater I yanked out of the closet, a pair of leggings that have a stain from where I wiped my hands on them after I ate lunch, and I don’t even remember if I brushed my hair today.
Do I know her? I still don’t know, but the look of stunned surprise on her face tells me that, not only does she not know me, but she sure as hell didn’t think I would answer the door.
“Oh,” she says, hand fluttering up to settle against the cleavage she definitely has on display. “I— I wasn’t expecting…”
Me? No shit.
“Hi. I’m Lucy,” I say automatically.
Good manners win out. She gives me a gracious smile. “Heather Moore.”
Nope. That name doesn’t mean anything to me, but the way she looks over my head, trying to peer inside the penthouse… yeah. I don’t like that.
“Can I help you?”
I hear the edge to my voice and, as Heather’s lips form a small pout, I add a new detail to the running list of ‘who is Lucy Wright’: she can be catty when she feels threatened.
“Um, yes. Thank you. I was hoping to speak with Dallas,” she continues, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. “Is he home?”
“No. He isn’t.”
As though she thinks I’m lying, she continues to try to look around me, searching for Dallas. There’s something nervous about her, I notice. Not malicious, really, but more… determined.
“I won’t take up much of his time,” she tells me. “There have been rumors and I just wanted to clarify?—”
Rumors?
“Rumors?” I echo.
Her smile falters as something clicks. “Oh. I’m sure I shouldn’t say.” A light laugh that I highly doubt she means. “A proper Offering doesn’t gossip.”
Offering? What?
I don’t understand…
I shake my head. “Sorry. He’s still at work. You can probably call him down at the garage, if it’s that important."
She frowns. “The garage? But I was told he was?—”
That’s it. “I can tell him you stopped by. Let him know you wanted to talk to him. Heather, right? I’m sure he’ll know who you are.”
The way her lips part, I finally notice that, beneath her expertly applied make-up, she’s much younger than I am. Younger, and taken aback by how rude I’m being.”
But she forges past it, letting out another of those laughs. “I should hope so. After all, we’re going to be married in two weeks.”
I slam the door in her face.
Huh. Look at that. I’ve learned something else about myself.
