Page 110 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Rue

My heels click on the oak floorboards as I walk through the townhome’s main floor one final time.

“Well?” the listing agent says brightly. “Shall we start your application? This one’s going to get snapped up fast.”

I turn in a slow circle and take in the crisp white walls, the high ceilings, the crown molding.

“Amazing light in the mornings.” She gestures at the large windows. “Imagine starting every Sunday curled up with your coffee right here in the parlor, overlooking the adorable yard.”

Yes. I can easily imagine living in this beautiful place.

“Maybe,” I say instead.

The agent’s smile wilts when I take her card and promise to get in touch once I’ve made up my mind. But I’ve already made up my mind.

“It’s not for me,” I tell Felicity when I’m back in my car.

“Oh, come on,” she moans. “I vetted everything.”

“Sorry.”

When my search for a new place entered double-digit days, Fi took things into her own hands and set up a program to scrape new real estate listings for rentals, condos, and subleases that meet my list of requirements. It’s turned up several strong contenders. I’ve turned them all down.

“What’s wrong with this one?” she demands.

“It’s too sunny.”

“Too sunny,” she says slowly. “We hate the sun now?”

“I guess so.” I slip on my oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses as if that’ll prove my point.

“And remind me what was wrong with the four thousand other places rejected?”

“Only eleven,” I mutter.

“Mmmhmm. One was too big. One was too small. Four were too far from work.”

“They were!”

“Another one was too close to work.”

“I could see my office parking lot from the bedroom window. That’s not healthy, Fi,” I say as I enter the medical district, where my office is located.

She ignores me. “Two were too expensive. Then there was the one that smelled like… what was it, again?”

I sigh. “It smelled like soup.”

“And not any particular flavor, either. Just soup.” She makes a thoughtful noise. “So this last one… was it really too sunny, or are you too in love with your neighbor to pick one of these very nice places?”

“No. God. I just want to find the perfect place before I pack up all my stuff again.”

Also, the thought of leaving the duplex for good makes it hard for me to breathe sometimes. But I’m not dwelling on that.

Thankfully, she shows mercy and turns to other topics: Thanksgiving plans, where we might go on vacation next year, which of Dietrich Porter’s ugly ceramic vases she’s thinking of giving me for Christmas this year.

My mood is definitely not improved when I make it back to the office and find a stranger poking around my desk.