Eight
Parker
I couldn’t deny myself my cow pajamas, but I was drawing a line at putting on another face mask. I wasn’t expecting company, but then again, I’d not been expecting company when Tristan had dropped around the other day. I’d been caught off-guard. Once bitten . . .
I poured some chocolate-covered raisins into a bowl, scooped up my tea, and padded into the living room. I hadn’t even had time for a single sip of my drink before someone knocked on my door. Even though some part of me had been anticipating the interruption, I still shot up ten feet in the air. Why would he be here again? I glanced down at my attire. Did I have time to change? Fuck it. He’d seen them before.
And it probably wasn’t him, anyway, right?
I swung the door open to find a towering Tristan Dubrow standing over me. Even with his head bowed, scrolling through his phone, he still looked gorgeous. Why couldn’t I get a guy like that to marry me? Sutton was right, I needed my trust fund money. If getting it required some subterfuge, so be it. I was going to marry someone this year if it was the last thing I did.
“Someone’s taking your money again.” He looked up from his phone and right at me. It was as if I’d been shoved, his stare was so intense. I took an involuntary step back.
“Come in,” I said to cover the visceral reaction my body had had to a simple look from him.
Again, he slipped inside and stayed in the hallway.
“How do you know?” I asked. “Did you break into my bank account?”
He pulled his eyebrows together. “Yes. How do you think I blocked the first company creaming off payments?”
I shouldn’t have asked. “I like the way you’re perfectly comfortable hacking into my bank account but God forbid you marry me so a charity can be up twenty-five million.” I sounded pissed off and I had no right to. He didn’t have any obligation to me. We’d spent a sum total of three hours together. Why would he agree to marry me? We needed to start again. “You want some ginger tea?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I hadn’t expected him to say yes. I headed into the kitchen and set about making him a drink. “How much have they taken?” I asked.
“Seems to be following the same pattern as last time—just small amounts each day. It was three seventy-five today.” He pursed his lips together like he was in the middle of today’s Wordle.
“Three hundred and seventy-five?”
He shook his head. “Three pounds seventy-five.”
“Can you block them?”
“Done.” He slid his phone into his back pocket and took the mug I offered.
“This place is small,” he said, glancing around my apartment.
“Thanks.” I headed back out into the hallway and slid onto the sofa, next to my bowl of raisins.
Tristan followed me. “I’m not saying it’s bad. I just expected you to . . .”
“Be more flash?” I finished his sentence for him. “I run a charity. There’s not much room in my salary for flash.”
“I guess I thought Arthur would—”
“I stand on my own two feet.” I took a raisin and popped it into my mouth. “I’ve always worked. I’ve always supported myself. Arthur is Arthur. I’m me.”
He held my gaze two seconds too long. “You’re trying to prove something.” It wasn’t a question but almost like he was thinking aloud.
“I’m trying to eat my raisins and drink my tea in peace. But a certain someone keeps interrupting my ‘me’ time.”
The corners of his lips curled up. “Who would want to skim money off a charity?”
“Thieves?”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “But why are they targeting Sunrise? They know they’ve been caught, yet they’ve come back for more.”
“Isn’t it just like . . . some bot that does it?”
“Exactly my point. It usually is. And if the bot gets blocked, they don’t try that account again. Not for a while at least. It gets put to the bottom of the list.”
“Maybe they know we know that, so they’re banking on us assuming the account is off their radar. You said yourself that they seemed sophisticated.”
“My gut tells me it’s personal. It’s Sunrise they’re interested in. Have you made any enemies?”
Enemies? Me? “We’re not a front for the CIA. We’re a charity for sick children.”
“It’s just weird. Have a think about it. And make sure you’re keeping your doors locked.”
My stomach somersaulted. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a precaution until I figure out what’s going on.” He squinted at me. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look like I just told you you can’t ever eat chocolate-covered raisins again.”
I played over me coming back to my flat this evening. “It’s just that when I came home from work today, the second lock on the door wasn’t on. And I’m pretty fastidious about making sure my flat is locked up when I leave. I was a little weirded out by it, but then I came inside, everything was fine, and I forgot about it. Maybe I missed it but . . . You think I’m being paranoid?”