One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(39)
I’m staring at a puzzle, holding the final piece in my hand, but no matter how long I look I can’t quite seem to figure out where the hell it goes.
My nonexistent knowledge of industrial factory equipment is exceedingly useless. So, eventually, I do the only thing I can do — snap a few pictures with my phone and high-tail it out of there before whoever was messing with the pipes comes back.
My pace is faster on my way out. I keep my legs moving and my eyes forward, suddenly desperate to be out of this place, out of this town, back in my safe, comfortable bed. I haven’t felt like this for years — this nervous, haunting nausea swirling in the pit of my stomach. Some innate instinct is telling me run, go, quick! Get out of sight.
As though everything I’ve worked for could be snatched from my grip with a rogue gust of wind.
Feeling like that made sense when I was living on street corners. It makes almost no sense, now.
Still, I’m relieved when I burst through the back door into the light of day, blinking at the sudden brightness. I practically run through the alley and across the parking lot. I don’t look back until I hit the street, nearly out of sight – just a quick glance over my shoulder at the factory, silhouetted by the sun sinking over the water.
Every muscle in my body goes tense.
Someone is standing in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, watching me leave. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s a man from his clothing, his build, his height. I’d bet my ass he’s wearing size-nine boots with deep, dust-covered treads on his feet.
Maybe you’re wrong, I tell myself. Maybe he’s just a homeless guy. Maybe he’s a teenage graffiti artist. Maybe he’s doing something totally innocent in that alley, like conducting a drug deal or soliciting a prostitute. Just because he’s watching you now doesn’t mean he’s been watching you since you got here.
My reassurances fall flat. This guy isn’t some teenage derelict. He isn’t a dealer or a creepy cheating husband.
He works for Lancaster.
As I watch, he takes a few steps into the abandoned stretch of parking lot, closing a tiny bit of the distance between us.
It’s close enough.
I don’t stick around another second to see what he plans to do about my trespassing. I turn on one heel and bolt toward civilization, never stopping until my ass is planted firmly in a plastic train seat and I’m barreling back toward Boston.
* * *
The next night, I’m sitting at my computer pouring over architectural plans of the LC factory I found on the flash drive, trying to figure out what those shiny pipes are — just like I’ve been doing since the moment I got back to my apartment — when the doorbell intercom buzzes.
I glance at my watch. It’s nearly midnight on a Thursday.
Who the f*ck is at my door, at this hour?
Luca and I still aren’t speaking, so it can’t be him. Plus, he has his own key; he wouldn’t buzz up. And… I don’t have any other friends.
The buzzer goes again, more insistently.
Grumbling under my breath, I rise to my feet and cross to the intercom panel by my door. The small screen shows a blurry, black and white video feed of a man wearing some kind of uniform, holding a box.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery for Zoe Bloom.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“The guy said to tell you it’s from Blaze.” The male voice sounds tired and somewhat nervous. “Listen, lady, he paid me double to deliver it tonight. And, to be totally honest, he’s not the kind of guy I want to have to disappoint with news I couldn’t make it happen.”
I snort, but I’m not exactly surprised. Luca has that effect on people.
“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll buzz you in. You can put the package in the elevator. I’ll call it up after you leave.”
I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not about to let some random dude into my apartment in the middle of the night. In this old building, the elevator doors open straight into my living room. Yes, the keyed-panel system offers a layer of protection, but it’s not exactly the same as having a concierge guarding the door at all hours. And my neighbors aren’t the type to call the police if they hear a scream, what with the illegal pot farm the guys in the unit below mine are cultivating and the fake ID operation the lady on the first floor runs out of her living room.
By the time the elevator clangs to a stop on my floor, the delivery boy is long gone. When the doors slide open, I find a small, hot pink box labeled Crumble in curvy white letters sitting inside. I stare at it ominously.
I know exactly what’s in the box — the same thing I order every time I stop at my favorite bakery in the city.
Double chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting.
I have to hand it to Luca — the bastard knows my weakness and is shamelessly exploiting it to get me to forgive him.
Still… it would be a shame to let them go to waste…
I sigh as I grab the box and retreat back into my apartment. I only last about thirty seconds after setting it down on the counter before I cave and flip open the lid, inhaling the scent of chocolate with a soft moan. There are four perfect, frosted cupcakes sitting inside, crying out for me to devour them.
Damn.
There’s a note tucked between two in the middle. I pluck it out and read it as I suck chocolate glaze off one finger.