Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(62)

“Has anything been really wrong?” I frowned. My imagination exploded with thoughts of that side alley and the industrial nature of her property.

“Not really.” She shrugged, sliding her plate onto the worktable. Then she grabbed a freshly brewed pot, righted a couple of mugs that had been resting upside down on a towel beside it, and poured us each a steaming cup. “Once some vandals broke into my car. Stole the radio.”

“Better than breaking into your house.” I muttered.

“Warehouse,” she corrected, taking a seat on a metal barstool. “Rusted metal outside. Not many people think anything valuable would be in here.”

I pegged her with a hard look. “You’re in here.”

Her gaze held mine a beat. Then another as she took a deep breath. Her lips curved into a smile as she tilted her head in a slight nod my way. “Fair enough. I promise to be careful.”

Only partially calmed by her promise, because it did f*ck all to actually keep her safe, I sat on the barstool beside her and dug into my breakfast. We ate for a few minutes in silence as I watched her cut tiny little triangles, one at a time, along the edge of her plate-sized pancake.

Fascinated to learn how she ate, I arched a brow. “I’ve seen you eat burgers, ribs, and Chinese.”

When I didn’t elaborate, she smirked. “This a weird bucket list of yours?”

“Maybe. Do you always cut food on a plate into uniform pieces? Or is it just pancakes?”

“Pancake. One. And I’ve never had a giant pancake before. So I don’t know.”

“How do you normally eat pancakes?”

“In a stack.”

Smartass.

“A perfectly uniform stack?” Back at ya.

Her lips twitched. Then she huffed out a laugh and shook her head. Her cheeks still held a pink blush. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. I’d had a hand in both and I wanted to do it again. Often. She was beyond beautiful when she stopped thinking and let herself enjoy life.

Remembering how bad her coffee was before, I took a tentative sip. It tasted…good. “Mmm. Different brew?”

She nodded. “Kendall gave it to me. She said she was trying to save me.”

I choked out a laugh. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you.”

“That’s cool.” Her brows arched as she glanced at me. “I’m open to java suggestions and donations.” She popped a folded piece of bacon into her mouth.

My eyes wandered as we ate, then landed on the stack of unopened mail still sitting on the far corner. One envelope had been pulled out from the rest. Bright red block letters had been stamped across the front of it: FINAL NOTICE.

Curious about the dire warning, I glanced at Kiki.

She stared at the envelope, must have caught me looking at it. Her entire demeanor had changed. Her body had gone rigid, shoulders tensed toward her ears. Breathing that had been calm and easy had now shortened to rapid breaths.

“Kiki?”

She didn’t respond.

I put a hand over hers, tangling our fingers together. “Kiki, look at me.”

After another couple of short breaths, she finally inhaled deeply and blinked, as if pulling herself from a trance. Then she turned her head, finally meeting my gaze.

“What’s in the envelope?”

She let out a huge breath and angled a wary glance at the envelope again, like the damn thing had teeth. “It’s my eviction notice.”

My heart sank. The warehouse wasn’t just her home; every square inch of it emanated parts of her. It was her.

“When?”

“End of the month.”

“Nine days from now?”

“Nine days, eleven hours, seventeen minutes from homelessness.”

“But...” My mind froze at how wrong it was, none of it made sense. “What about your art? Didn’t you have a successful showing?” I hadn’t been to her opening exhibit, but the crew at Loading Zone had heard all about it from Cade—proud brother bragging.

“Those exhibit sales are what I rented the place with. The very first thing I did. That money covered the security deposit plus first and last month’s rent, with enough left over to renovate the old office” —she pointed at her loft above us— “some furnishings, and a few art supplies.”

“You haven’t sold any pieces since then? It’s been…five months.”

A hard laugh huffed from her. “Oh, I did. Sold two more in January, one in February. Big pieces, too. Would’ve paid my rent through summer.”

“What happened?”

“The gallery owner turned crooked. Or maybe she always was; I didn’t verify the sales prices with what the buyers paid. Maybe she shafted them too.”

Anger welled up from my gut. “Shafted?”

I dropped my fork and shoved my plate away, appetite gone.

She took several gulps of coffee. “Yep. Got excuse after excuse for the delays on payment of the additional sales. Then my calls weren’t being returned. When I finally got pissed off enough to go there to stand in front of her and watch her cut me a check…it was too late.”

My eyes narrowed. “Too late how?”

“Gallery locked up with a small notice on the door. Closed by order of the IRS.”

I blew out a harsh breath. “Tax evasion.”