Follow Me(48)

I rang the bell, all the while checking discreetly for plaques or other signage. I saw none, but was still surprised when Max, barefoot and wearing faded denim, answered the door. I stifled a smirk. The Vans were gone, but I wasn’t sure this was an improvement.

“Audrey,” he said, smiling warmly. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I said, stepping onto the entry’s shiny wood floor. Beyond Max, I could see a sitting room and, beyond that, what looked like a kitchen. Was this his home? Even I, who had almost zero familiarity with DC real estate, could tell this was a pricey location. Max clearly wasn’t hurting for cash—despite his embarrassing shoe choice at the Rosalind preview, he must have been a donor to be there at all, and besides, he’d mentioned going to camp with Cat and I knew Cat’s family was loaded.

“Is this where you live?” I asked, unable to contain my awe.

“I wish,” he said, flashing his dimples at me. “It’s ours tonight, though.”

“What, did we break in or something?”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Of course not. What kind of first date would this be if we ended up spending the night in jail?”

“The kind that makes a good story,” I teased. “What doesn’t kill you makes you more interesting, you know.”

“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But I was thinking something a bit more tame for the evening. Less criminal activity, more home-cooked dinner and wine.”

“Ah, well, there’s always next time,” I said, stepping further into the home and peering into the sitting room. A midcentury-style teal couch and two wood-framed, mustard-colored armchairs sat around a low, modern coffee table. A large Rothko-style painting was on the wall. I raised my eyebrows, impressed. “So who does live here?”

“No one right now. This place is on the market. My dad’s real estate firm is handling this property, and I borrowed the space for the night.”

“It’s incredible. How much would a place like this set a girl back?”

Scratch.

Max opened his mouth to reply, but all I heard was the scratching—not unlike the noises I often heard in my alley—coming from the side window. I whipped my head in its direction, staring hard at the drawn curtains and wondering just what might be on the other side.

“What was that?”

“What?” he asked, following my eyes to the window.

“That scratching noise.”

Max shrugged. “I didn’t hear anything, but I’m sure it’s just a tree branch or something.”

I nodded even while my pulse raced. Could it really have just been a tree branch? It had sounded too deliberate, too human for my comfort.

Stop being paranoid, Audrey, I chastised myself. What do you think, that Ryan followed you all the way over here? Please. Get it together or Max is going to think you’re crazy.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you around.”

I cast one last glance at the windows before taking his hand and letting him lead me through the big, empty house.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE





AUDREY


Seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and at least four fireplaces later, I had forgotten about the scratching noises outside. The house was immense and elegant, like nothing I had ever seen—and certainly like nothing I expected to find in an urban environment. As nice as some of the ritzy town houses on the Upper East Side, but more spacious, it seriously tempted me to break my self-imposed Instagram moratorium. Max concluded the tour on the master bedroom’s balcony, a space that was almost as large as my entire apartment. It was covered in potted palms, giving it a lush, tropical feel that nearly obscured the fact we were in DC—until I looked ahead.

There’s this rumor that no building in the District can be taller than the Capitol Building, and while Cat has told me that’s not strictly true, the city nonetheless lacks the vertical diversity I became accustomed to in New York—and lacks some of its views. But standing on the balcony of this gorgeous, private home atop a small hill in a quiet neighborhood, I could see the dome of the Capitol glowing like a luminary against the darkening sky and the Washington Monument shimmering white.

“Wow.”

“I thought you’d like it,” he said, smiling shyly. “Monument views like this are rare.”

“Is this some sort of guerrilla marketing attempt to sell me this home? Because, I have to tell you, it’s working.”

“Am I that obvious?” he joked. “For the low, low price of four million dollars, all this could be yours.”

“Four million, huh?” I said, surveying the private yard and swimming pool below. “That’s actually not as much as I would have guessed. I’d have to sell a hell of a lot of presets, though.”

“A lot of what?”

“Presets. They’re basically filters,” I explained. “I’ve been developing a collection of them, and, once I’ve launched it, my followers will be able to essentially adjust their Instagram photos to look just like mine.”

He drew his thick brows together in confusion. “Now, admittedly, I don’t know much about Instagram because—”

“The Russian porn bots,” I supplied helpfully.