Per usual, after I’ve done something that was driven more by impulse than thought, I was deluged with a truckload of self-doubt. Did I do the right thing to try to gain access to the hot tub? Was Daire going to be angry that I called him “landlord”? It had seemed like an on-the-nose way to make my point at the time.
Oh man, I was going to get tossed out on my behind. I knew Miguel and Soph would take me in. But when they’d offered originally, I hadn’t wanted to be an imposition, plus I’d feared being made creative director and living with the bosses wouldn’t go over well with the staff I was supposed to supervise. And now that I’d met the throbbing nerve of resentment that was Carson West, I knew I’d made the right call.
I put my ramen in the microwave and crossed over to the windows to glance at the big house while my dinner cooked. No lights were visible. I wondered if my smartest play would be to sneak back and retrieve my stupid note. Probably not; he had to have gotten it by now. Damn it.
The microwave beeped and I took my soup out and put it on the counter. I debated having a glass of wine for about a nanosecond and then went ahead with a generous pour of chardonnay. I wasn’t sure if this was the correct pairing with ramen, but whatever.
While the soup cooled, I retrieved my phone from my bag in the living room, planning to text my sister while I ate. I was halfway back to my seat when there was a knock.
I dropped low to the floor like someone had thrown tear gas through the window. I glanced in the direction of my bedroom. Could I get there without being seen? No. Unlike at the big house, I liked having all of my drapes pulled open and anyone could see in, because I didn’t want to live feeling buttoned up to the neck. I might have to rethink that.
I stayed perfectly still. Maybe if I didn’t move, the person would assume I wasn’t home and they’d go away. I held my crouched position even though my back was beginning to spasm.
The knock sounded again. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. What if it was Daire himself, coming to throw me out?
“Hello? Ms. Martin?” a voice, a man’s voice, called through the door. Gah! It probably was Daire. I felt my entire body cramp. If I was capable of moving, I would have smacked my forehead with an open palm, but I didn’t want to make a sound.
Despite my curiosity about my landlord, which was like an itch I couldn’t reach to scratch, this was not how I wanted to meet him. We needed neutral ground or something.
There was movement behind the glass doors, and a bald, bearded man peered at me through the narrow window on the side of the double doors. He blinked. I didn’t move. Would he think I was a piece of furniture? A delightfully random sculpture, perhaps?
His gaze held mine, and he waved one big beefy hand. I realized he could see me quite clearly in my awkward frozen crouch, and I likely looked like an idiot. I waved back and then pretended to tie my shoe, yeah, because that was going to fool him. My heart was beating hard in my chest and I felt suddenly sweaty.
I rose and crossed the room to the doors. Steeling myself with a big breath, I unlocked the doors and pulled open the one on the right. “Hello,” I said. I made my voice cheery and, I hoped, innocent sounding. Just me eating a bowl of ramen, nothing to see here.
“Hi, I’m Jackson Popov,” he said. So he was not Mr. Daire. My spine relaxed and I drew a relieved breath.
“Annabelle Martin.” I pointed to myself.
“I know. I work for Mr. Daire. He asked me to bring you this.”
He held out an envelope. I didn’t take it. His eyes went wide as if he didn’t know what to do with my nonparticipation. But really, why would I want to take what was likely an eviction notice? I felt like I was being served legal papers, and I wanted no part of them. He flapped the envelope at me. I kept my hands at my sides.
He pursed his lips and squinted one eye as if he was unclear on what to make of me, and it gave me a chance to study him. I guessed him to be in his early to mid-thirties, despite the bald head, which looked shaved rather than the result of hair loss. He was built huge in height and width; the T-shirt he wore strained to cover the muscles that rippled beneath his skin with every move he made—even in his neck. Impressive and fascinating.
I wondered what he did for Mr. Daire. Bodyguard? Personal trainer? Enforcer? The last one made me pause, but his friendly face didn’t seem like the type to crack skulls for a living. Still, the possibilities were endless.
“Is he throwing me out?” I asked.
He shrugged his massive shoulders. Seriously, if he tried to come in, he’d have to turn sideways to manage it. He held the envelope out and said, “There’s only one way to find out.”
Reluctantly, I took it. I glanced at him and asked, “Scale of one to ten—with one being ‘What infraction of the rules?’ and ten being ‘Let’s stone her to death!’—how mad was he that I used the hot tub?”
Jackson’s lips twitched. “Funny you should use the scale of one to ten.”
“Just trying to get an assessment of the potential fallout,” I said.
“Understood.” He looked up at the dark night sky and then down at the ground while he considered his answer. “I’d say a solid seven. It’s all he talked about today.”
“Oh,” I said. The envelope in my hand felt suddenly hot. “Sorry.”
“No, trust me, it was a nice change from the usual,” he said.
I wondered what “the usual” was but didn’t ask. Instead, I said, “Do you want to come in? Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“You’re stalling,” he said. His pale gray eyes glinted with understanding.
Of course I was, but I did appreciate that he could see my BS for what it was. I glanced down at the envelope and saw the precise handwriting on the outside: Ms. Martin.
Was it a promising sign that I had been upgraded from Tenant? I wasn’t sure.
A chime sounded and he took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the display. “Gotta go,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”
Then he turned and walked down the steps. He didn’t stay and wait to see if I had a reply for Mr. Daire, as if this were an Austen novel and he was the footman with a return message. I wondered if that meant this was an eviction notice. Clearly, in that case, there’d be no need to wait since there was only one way this was ending.
I closed the door and locked it as he disappeared from view. I turned and tossed the envelope onto the counter. It didn’t feel as thick as the original rules. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I had no idea.
As long as I didn’t open it, then I could live in blissful ignorance. I went into the kitchen and picked up my spoon. I ate at the counter, staring at the envelope, trying to guess what was inside. I lifted it up to the light, wondering if I would see the words Get Out through the envelope. No such luck.