“They will be for a price.”
“But I’d have to break my lease early.”
“I’ll cover the cost.”
“Or I can still keep the place just in case—”
I cut her off. “How do you think it would look to the public if they found out you kept your place ‘just in case’?”
Her bottom lip wobbles. “But I love my apartment.”
“I’m sure there’s a certain charm about living next to active crime scenes, but you’ll get over it.”
“I live in Hyde Park, not a war zone.”
“Lived in Hyde Park. As in you are no longer a resident as of tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrow. “So that’s it? You snap your fingers and I’m supposed to do what you say like some obedient wife, no questions asked?”
“You’ve been practicing for years already, so there shouldn’t be a steep learning curve.”
My comment earns me a stress ball launched at my head and one wheezy laugh that can be heard all the way through my closed office door.
Think about your future. My right eye twitches as Iris hauls another potted plant into my house. At this rate, my home is going to be turned into a plant nursery. Spilled soil marks the hardwood floors to serve as a reminder of how my perfectly organized life is being turned on its head.
I walk around three other plants the size of small trees before reaching my front door. Iris speaks to one of the plants in a hushed voice, stroking one of its leaves while apologizing for uprooting its life. She’s insane. There’s no other way to describe someone who coos at plants like they’re children.
At least she’ll make a decent mother.
I mute my phone so the head of our auditing department doesn’t hear me. “Is that all? You’re letting all the heat out of the house.” I point at the open front door. On cue, a gust of wind batters against me.
Iris rubs her hands together before blowing on them. “You know, all of this would go a lot faster if you helped me.”
“I don’t do manual labor.”
“Then thank God we’re not having a child the old-fashioned way or else I’d be stuck doing all the work.”
Any rebuttal gets trapped in my throat, which only makes her laugh.
“You think you’re funny?”
“I’d rather be that than a lazy lay.” She runs out the door, obviously pleased with herself for stunning me into silence.
I almost forget about the person on the other line until they start speaking. Iris’s chaotic presence is already wreaking havoc on my life, and I wonder how I’m going to survive three years of her living here. My whole space is tainted with her shit, from the colorful blankets strewn across my pristine couch to a few framed photos of two women I’ve yet to meet.
I try my hardest to focus on the conversation, but I’m only half paying attention to whatever is said. My ability to concentrate has been severely impaired ever since Iris’s moving truck showed up in my driveway.
Twenty minutes later, Iris drops onto the floor in a heap. “All done!” Her two braids fan out around her, covered in snowflakes. A few spiral curls escaped the tight plait during the moving process and stick to her face. Her baby-pink winter jacket looks out of place—a complete contrast to my black suit, shoes, and soul.
I scan the perimeter, noting fewer than ten boxes. “You have more plants than things.”
She laughs up to the ceiling. “I’m a crazy plant lady. What else can I say?”
“Nothing is preferable.”
Her body shakes from silent laughter as she stands. “How does it feel to have someone in your space?”
“Loud.”
“Imagine how you’ll feel once you have a child running around here and screaming.”
“I’ll invest in a bark collar.”
She blinks. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck. Of course I’m not being serious.”
She lets out a whoosh of air.
“Although a sound-proofed bedroom doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Her brows jump. “For them or you?”
“Them. Mine was remodeled years ago.”
She instantly becomes interested in looking at anything but my face. What I’d pay to hear a second of her thoughts.
Millions. Maybe even billions.
“So…” She rocks back on her boots as she assesses her belongings. “How exactly do we go about this situation?”
Right. Stick to the plan.
I grunt as I grab a heavy box off the top of one pile. “What are you carrying in here?”
She peeks at the handwriting on the side of the box. “My high heels.”
“They’ll look great inside of the fireplace.”
She jumps up and tries to swipe her precious cargo out of my hands. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Destroying her shoe collection would be worth her anger. They’ve been on my shit list ever since Iris found a loophole in her employment contract regarding workwear. Instead of following the office dress code of neutrals only, she tests my patience with neck-breaking heels and accessories the color of the rainbow.
At least she lives up to her name.
“You should know better than to underestimate me after all this time.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “Declan Lancelot Kane. I swear if one single shoe goes missing, I will—”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
She grins. “Would you prefer for me to use the more formal Sir Lancelot?”
“What I prefer is your silence.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun.”
“This isn’t supposed to be fun.” Yet it certainly doesn’t feel like work.
Exactly why all this is a bad idea.
It’s easy to fall into a comfortable rhythm with Iris. Almost too easy.
“I swear, you’re going to die of a heart attack one day from all this pent-up angst. It’s not good for your blood pressure.”
I ignore her as I walk toward the staircase. “I’ll show you to our room.”
“Our room?” She trips over her boots.
“I can’t have the housekeeper speaking out against the legitimacy of our agreement.”
“Right. Of course.” She nods with a doe-eyed expression so unlike her usual quick rebuttals.
She’s nervous. I give her my back, concealing my small smile as I lead Iris up the grand staircase toward my bedroom. She helps me with the door, and it opens to reveal my favorite space in the whole house. The light blue walls and white furniture stand out against the dark wood floors.
“Wow. It’s a lot brighter than I expected.”
“Contrary to popular belief, coffins don’t make for comfortable sleeping arrangements.”
Her howl of a laugh makes my lips twitch in response.
I drop the box near the entrance to her empty closet. “You’ll keep your clothes in here.”
“But I’m not—we’re not—you don’t expect me to—” Her eyes dart around the space, not quite landing on anything.
My ability to be the only person who can throw her off-kilter fills me with a burning sense of satisfaction.