Me—demanding to know if he was the reason Giancarlo was using drugs.
Him—acting all affronted that I would even consider asking him such a question. Because he was innocent, of course.
Right.
Me—demanding to know why he was involved with drugs at all.
Who said something? Your reporter boyfriend? He's lying. Trying to frame me. That's what he does. You should go and look up his name.
I’d already done that, though. And I thought I’d known the whole story.
I’d come here.
And Ulysses had laid himself bare to me.
I’d basically made him relive all that—to alleviate my sense of unease.
Because fucktard Marlon had one thing right—I didn’t know everything about Ulysses. Even now, I didn’t feel like I knew everything.
And who says you need to? Who’s keeping score? Even if he is your…boyfriend…who says your relationship isn’t solid enough as is?
I caught sight of the open door to the second bedroom.
Curiosity might’ve killed the cat—but it had never stopped me from venturing where I maybe shouldn’t have been going. Asking forgiveness instead of permission and all that bullshit.
Instead of questioning the wisdom of my actions, I made my way into the room.
The blinds were open here as well, and that artificial light flooded in. The desk, pressed right up against the window, was the first thing that caught my attention. It dominated the space.
I advanced toward it and did some calculations in my mind. During the day, sitting at this desk, there would be a direct line of sight to Mount Baker. Unobstructed and phenomenal view.
My desk in my loft—with the view of the forest beyond—had nothing on this.
A shiver ran through me.
Well duh. You’re naked. It’s nearly the end of October. What were you expecting?
Ulysses didn’t have his heat on yet. Wasn’t cold enough for that—but it would come soon enough.
Another lash of rain against the window.
I glanced down the desk.
And squinted.
Okay, there’s a difference between asking forgiveness because you inadvertently went somewhere you weren’t supposed to and actually snooping deliberately.
And yet—
I found the switch for the lamp and flicked it on.
The neat pile of papers must’ve been five or six inches.
In Each Their Time.
A novel by H.R. Webb
My jaw dropped. I knew just enough about publishing to recognize a manuscript. And, having read every single H.R. Webb novel, I could also recognize this was a new book.Why would Ulysses have—
