“I just go by Archie,” I say. “Common name.”
Richard stares at me for a long moment. I keep my expression pleasant, neutral, the same vapid cheerfulness I’ve perfected over the last year.
Finally, he shakes his head. “No, I suppose not. Absurd idea, really. Forget I said anything.”
He hands the card to me and walks away.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
That was close. Too close.
I turn around and my heart stutters.
Leo is standing in the doorway, the inflatable costume tucked under one arm. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there’s a faint shimmer of glitter at the corner of his mouth.
Shit.
How long has he been there? Did he hear my conversation with Richard?
His expression gives nothing away. Those dark eyes just watch me, unreadable.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Almost,” I manage.
I busy myself with unnecessary adjustments to already-packed bags, not meeting his eyes.
Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he came in at the end. Maybe?—
“Archie.”
I look up.
Leo’s still watching me. Still unreadable.
“You left your cards on the table,” he says. He walks over to retrieve them.
Our fingers brush as he hands them to me.
I can’t tell if there’s a question in his eyes. Or if it’s just my own paranoia reflected back at me.
Chapter Seventeen
Leo
The apartment smells like my grandmother’s kitchen.
I stop in the doorway, keys still in hand, because that can’t be right. My grandmother’s been dead for twelve years, and her kitchen was in a cramped house in Detroit that smelled like chicken and dumplings, pot roast, cigarette smoke, and the particular kind of love that came with criticism about my posture.
But I can’t mistake the rich and savory scent, with an undertone of butter and black pepper.
“You’re back.” Archie’s voice floats from somewhere near the sofa. “How was your day?”
My day. My day started with dog walking, which went smoothly right up until Mrs. Winthrop’s Pomeranian discovered a foxhole, and I discovered that a five-pound dog can generate approximately eight hundred pounds of pulling force when properly motivated. I spent ten minutes lying face-down on Hampstead Heath with my arm wedged in a hole while Cinnamon barked like I was the one being unreasonable.
That was the highlight of my day, actually. Mainly because Archie had responded to my frantic phone call with a calm voiceand helpful suggestions, interrupted only twice by laughter he didn’t quite manage to suppress.
My meetings with human clients—you know, myrealjob—hadn’t felt as productive as managing to extract a Pomeranian from a foxhole using nothing but a squeaky toy and some treats.
