Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(3)

“Stop! Stop reading. You can’t read that. It’s her private life.”

“I can’t help it. There’s something about this woman. If I read a little more, you’ll understand. She’s a woman reaching for her dreams—”

“It sounded like sex,” I say, but that part about “doing anything to please a man” hits a wound I don’t want opened.

“It’s more than sex,” she argues. “It’s her pushing her limits and being unafraid when she had been afraid, Skye.”

Afraid. It’s a word I’ve allowed myself to know far too intimately, and I wonder what makes Ella, who seems so lighthearted and fun, connect to that word. “I’ll tell you more about it later.” She glances at her cell phone. “It’s late and I have a date tonight. I’d better go change. You leaving?”

I shake my head. “I’m staying.”

“It’s getting dark.”

“It’s a lighted indoor facility, and I’m sure it has cameras. I’m fine.”

Her brows pucker. “I don’t like leaving you.”

“I’m fine. Go enjoy your date. I’m going to enjoy”—I smile and motion to the box beside her—“underwear.”

She laughs. “I’m sure there’s more than underwear in here to find. Don’t forget to look inside all the books. You know people hide things in books.” She holds up the journal. “That’s how I found this little jewel.”

That’s worth no money, I think, but I don’t say it. Judging from the way it seems to have affected her, maybe it has a value beyond money. “Go have a good date night.”

“David’s pretty good at wining and dining me. I’ll call you tomorrow and see what great things you discovered. You did bring your own lock for the door like I told you, right?”

“I did.”

“Good. Be careful here alone.” We hug, and I watch her depart before heading toward a box of paperwork I’d seen earlier. We’re supposed to return legal papers to the front office, but I have to go through it first and make sure I’m not getting rid of anything of value.

Two hours later, I’ve gone through every book, file, and stack of papers I can find in my new unit, and I’ve still found nothing. Stuffing some loose pages into a box, I’m ready to call it a night when a plastic sleeve the size of a bookmark falls from between papers I swear I’ve already checked. I reach down and grab it, and frown at the tiny key and a folded piece of paper stuffed inside.

Snatching a pencil from the box, I inch the paper out of the sleeve and unfold it to find a purchase order for a locker at the bus station. Why would you keep something at a bus station that could be here, in this unit? It makes no sense. Do I dare believe that maybe, just maybe, whatever is in that locker will pay for the unit? At this point, I just want to break even. I return the slip of paper to the sleeve, holding on to it and my little piece of hope, then shrug my purse over my shoulder and grab the box of paperwork before heading to the door.

As I step into the vacant hallway the overhead light flickers, clearly ready to burn out, the eerie silence surrounding me. I set the box on the floor, shove the heavy door shut, and dig the lock from my purse to snap it into place. I struggle to get the silver clip into the hole and drop the plastic sleeve. The lights flicker again, and, feeling more than a little jittery, I bend down to grab the sleeve, when a deep male voice says, “Need help?”

Boots and jean-clad legs appear at my eye level, and I swallow hard at the idea that someone got this close without me hearing him. My gaze lifts to find a man towering over me, his shoulder-length light brown hair draping forward. Actually, he’s more jean-clad rock-star hotness than just a man, with that unexplainable edgy bad-boy quality so few of the male population possess and who a great number of women hope to find. It’s the same quality that smart girls like me know is trouble, usually by finding out the hard way. A lesson that runs deep and wide for me, and is exactly why I stick to suits and ties and—

He extends his hand, and I suddenly wonder why I’m still on the ground when a man this hot is standing over me.

I ignore his offer of help and pop to my feet. And good gosh, either I have shrunk or he’s really tall. My chin lifts and I decide he’s at least six foot three to my five foot four inches, and the already small hallway suddenly feels like a mouse hole. “Dropped something,” I explain. “But I’m fine. Thanks for the, ah . . .” The what? “Thanks. Though.” I cringe inwardly. I want to be a lawyer? I can’t even form sentences.

He bends down and picks up the plastic sleeve before standing up again, glancing at the contents, and then offers it to me. “The ‘something’ you dropped, I think.”

“Thanks, yes.” I accept the key and try not to speak for fear I’ll chew my tongue off. This makes me more awkward. And warm. I am really warm. I decide right then to name him “Trouble,” especially when his firm, full lips quirk as if he knows what I’m feeling and why—which, of course, since I guess him to be in his early thirties, he does. He’s had plenty of years to figure out how women respond to him.

“You seemed to be struggling with the lock. You want me to take a look?” The light flickers again, his gaze lifting and lowering. “Preferably before we go dark.”