A ladybug.
“Uh, Malone?”
“Not now, Houdini. I have a situation,” he said without looking up.
The Houdini part stung, but that sting was quickly replaced with irritation. “Seems to me like the pot is calling the kettle black. Andmaybe if I had your number, I could’ve texted you to say I was on a job. Or, I don’t know, you could’ve texted me, Criss Angel.”
“Well, you couldn’t leave fast enough on Monday night, so I took the opportunity to get some work in.”
“What do you think I was doing?”
“Listen, Stark. I have a bit of a situation here, so can we schedule this argument for later?”
“Fine. Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t know. Are you an entomologist?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“A person who studies bugs.”
I didn’t care for this sarcastic Malone, although I had to admit I’d be irritated, too, if I had an infestation in my apartment.
When he swatted another bug away, I noticed he still had a bandage on his left hand. That made me feel terrible all over again. The man had punched someone on my behalf, and what had I done? Ghosted him.
“Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disappeared on you like that. I had work to do, but I should’ve left my phone number with you at least.”
“That I could find if I wanted to,” he said while frowning at his phone.
True. In my first round of investigating all Malones—but mostly Blake—I’d confirmed that my Malone worked as a forensic accountant for a cybersecurity company. No doubt he had his ways of finding out anything he wanted to know.
“You just wanted me togiveyou my number.”
“Correct.”
His tone might’ve been nonchalant, but I’d definitely wounded him. Even worse? He looked positively delicious. I’d never understood the hullabaloo about gray sweatpants until that very moment.
“Come on, Malone. Let me help you with this”—I waved my hand around—“situation, and then we can talk this over.”
“Sure,” he said, his voice still flat. “You’re a PI. Tell me who sent that package.”
As I reached for the box he’d pointed to, three or four ladybugs dive-bombed my face as if they were inTop Gunand buzzing my tower.
If you’d asked me before today whether I thought ladybugs were a problem, I would’ve said no. I would’ve said they were cute. Turned out a swarm of them was disconcerting.
I finally picked up the box that sat on Malone’s recliner and felt inside gently. Nothing there. Even the outside didn’t give a return address. Beside the box, however, was a note: “If you don’t like Taylor Swift, then you deserve to be bugged by some ladies.”
I laughed. I wasn’t the only petty person in this apartment complex.
Malone shot me a dirty look. “It’s not funny.”
I swallowed any possible retorts. One, I didn’t want to accidentally swallow a ladybug. Two, the whole situation was comedy gold, but Malone would need some time to come to that realization.
Ladybugs kept landing on his shirt, undercutting both his stern expression and his uber masculine hands-on-hips stance. One landed on his nose, but he kept his commitment to scowling at me.
Respect.
I drew my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture.
