Page 59

"I know," he says. "I told them."

I stare at him. He sips his champagne.

"Laszlo. How do you know what order I keep my books in?"

"Poetry sideways on top," he says, smiling, and I want to bash his head against the windowpane for moving my stuff without my consent.

"How many times were you in my home?"

"Manon—"

He isn’t going to get out of this. "How many times, Laszlo?"

He sips his champagne. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and I can see the veins in his forearms and hands. The same hands that touched me just hours ago while he fucked me so hard he made me forget who I was and where I was. My body hasn't forgotten a single second of it. I'm looking at his fingers wrapped around that glass and all I can think about is how they felt inside me…

And now I’m here in my wedding dress, realizing that this man has been breaking into my place, my sanctuary, and I am beyond help.

"I didn't count for how long."

"Try."

"Enough to know that you keep your coffee in a weird spot in a hall cupboard and your medical journals under the bed instead of on the shelf, which is a fire hazard, incidentally."

I picture myself walking through my own front door after a twelve-hour shift, kicking off my shoes, dropping onto the sofa and falling asleep with the television on, and him having been there that morning. His hands on my mugs. His fingers on my books. The air in my home still warm with him and me breathing in his scent and not knowing.

"I'll need to sort out the house," I say, my voice steady, which surprises me. "I have to give notice. The management company will want the key back, and the pest control routine visit is in—" I’m wondering now why I never bought the house. I’ve always rented. Perhaps I just wanted freedom to leave if I wanted.

Freedom … the most important thing.

"You don't need to give notice."

"There's a contract, Laszlo. Normal people have contracts. I have to give two months' notice in writing."

"You don't need to give notice," he repeats, patient as a man explaining something to a child, "because you don't have a landlord. You have me."

My head starts spinning. Downstairs, faintly, the string quartet starts playing a classical version of Young and Beautiful, by Lana del Rey. Not exactly appropriate for a wedding reception.

Meanwhile, his words sink in somewhat.

"What did you say?"

"Hudson Property Management," he says, "is one of mine. It has been since before you moved in. You've been an excellent tenant, incidentally. Always on time. Very polite emails." A small pause, and then, with the mild pride of a man presenting references, he adds, "Who do you think made sure your central heat was fixed in record time in November?"

"The maintenance man?"

"Manon." He gives me a look that's almost gentle. "It was actually me because the regular guy was busy and I wanted to be certain the job was done right. I also replaced the batteries in your smoke alarms because I don't trust the brand. And I fixed the leaking tap in your bathroom. You sent a very sweet text afterwards. Thank you so much, that tap was driving me mad, kind regards, Manon. Kind regards," he repeats, savoring it. "I've kept it."

"Were you there when I was home?"

"No."

"Were you ever there when Charles was home?"

His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow. His hesitation is unnerving. He scratches his cheek, and every hair on my arms stands up. My nipples harden under my wedding dress. I hate my body so much right now I could scream, because that look should terrify me and instead I feel myself getting more and more turned on.

"Once."

My hand finds my grandmother's blanket on the bed and grips it.