“So what did you do?”
“Nothing,” I insist.
If she can’t stand me then she has to leave. It’s as simple as that.
Ryker sighs. “Well, maybe you have to do something so she doesn’t leave. You know Ethan will be pissed if she does. She’s really talented. It would be a pity if another company took that talent away from us.”
I have to say Ryker has a point.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask him.
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s good with women.”
“Not with this woman.” Unfortunately.
He shrugs. “Maybe just be… nice?”
Nice? Like what? Give her flowers? Bring her coffee? Tell her she looks more beautiful now that she’s not hiding her blue eyes behind disgusting contacts? Why should I? Even if I do, she’ll never forgive me. She’ll never be nice to me. What’s the point?
“You could give her a welcome present,” Ryker suggests.
No way. If I’m going to get her something, it will be the opposite. Something that will piss her off and convince her to quit.
I grin. Well, there’s an idea.
~
I’m still trying to think of that perfect present when I reach the floor of my apartment, but my thoughts stop in their tracks as I catch a whiff of something sweet. I turn my head as I realize the scent is coming from the door on my left, the only other door in the hallway apart from mine. I realize what the scent is, too.
Pancakes.
The smell of pancake mix, butter, cinnamon and maple syrup throws me back to a sunlit kitchen. I was six and had a hard time getting on a stool, but I managed on my first try that time. My mother was wearing a white apron over a pink dress and she was humming as she made pancakes. That was one of the few times I remember seeing her well, not pale or in pain or in bed looking so fragile. That was the only time she made something for me, too. I don’t think I’ve ever had pancakes since then.
Nor have I heard of anyone making them at two in the morning. And yet, right now, clearly, someone is. Someone living in the apartment next to mine.
My eyebrows furrow as I stare at the closed door, one which I’ve passed countless times before but which this time holds a mystery I cannot help but be intrigued by.
I have a neighbor?
I thought I heard a noise coming from the other side of my living room wall the other night, but I didn’t think much of it. It definitely didn’t cross my mind that I might finally have a neighbor, which I now realize I do.
My lips curve into a grin.
I’m pretty sure my new neighbor is a woman. One who makes pancakes and can’t sleep. I like her already.
Who knows? She might just help me forget all about Violet Cleary.Chapter FourViolet
“I almost forgot, Ms. Cleary,” Dylan tells me after I leave my final report of the day with him so he can hand it to Asher. I’d do it myself but I’m exhausted enough—I haven’t been sleeping much lately what with all the pressure at work—and I really don’t want to see his face unless I have to. “Mr. Hawthorne wanted you to have this.”
He hands me a rectangular box wrapped in gold paper with a red bow and a small white tag. My name is the only thing written on it.
A present? From Asher?
I throw my puzzled look at Dylan. “But it’s not my birthday.”
And even if it was, there’s no way I’d expect—or accept—a gift from Asher.
“He said it’s a welcome present,” Dylan explains. “A bit late, he said, but he hopes you’ll appreciate it just the same.”
A welcome present? After all he’s been doing to make me feel unwelcome? After that declaration of war he just issued last week? It can’t be.
“You said it’s from Mr. Hawthorne?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Asher Hawthorne?”
Because it could very well be one of the other Hawthorne brothers running this company. That would make more sense. They both seem nicer than Asher. And more reasonable.
“Yes,” Dylan answers. “He even bought it himself.”
I can understand the surprise I hear in Dylan’s tone. Usually, when you’re busy enough to warrant an assistant, you let him do your shopping. I’m sure Dylan buys lots of stuff for Asher. That makes this even more suspicious.
Asher is giving me a welcome present? And one that he bought himself, at that? Why? What is he up to?
I can only think of two things. One, this is some kind of prank. True, Asher is a bit too old for pranks—What is he? Thirty at least?—but he acts like a six-year-old, so yeah, I wouldn’t put pranks past him.
I press down the edges of the box and give it a shake. It doesn’t make much of a sound. Whatever’s inside is hard. Compact. That rules out a shirt with weird prints, handfuls of glitter or plastic bugs. Or even live bugs. What is this? One of those glass paperweights with something that looks like animal poop inside? A tumbler with creepy faces? Some cursed antique?