“Yes, by B. St. Clair,” she confirms. “Did you not receive it? I can send out another one free of charge. They normally cost fifty dollars, but I can make an exception this time.”

“No,” I tell her, “that’s not necessary. I’m sure I’ll be able to locate it.”

I end the call and lock up my apartment. Garment bag in hand, I start the walk toward the subway, and wonder the whole time why Barrett would keep this from me.

* * *

I find Barrett in the kitchen. The sight of him, blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up, his strong hands working the cork out of a bottle of wine, nearly knocks me over. Also, he’s having what seems like an intense conversation with Baxter.

“I think we should tell her.”

“Tell me what?” I ask.

Before I can inquire further, Barrett greets me with a passionate kiss and a moment later I’m on the kitchen counter, my legs wrapped around his waist. My hands are in his hair and his are working their way up my thighs, and underneath my skirt.

It’s only when our intense make-out session knocks the garment bag off the stool that I remember my annoyance with him.

I push on his chest to get some space and hop off the counter to retrieve the now slumped over garment bag.

“What’s in the bag?” he asks.

“My dress for Lauren’s wedding.”

“Ah. Lauren of the bachelorette party.” His tone goes serious as he remembers why we’re in this situation. A situation in which I’m not sure what’s happening anymore. His deal with Fred will be signed next week and then what? There’s been no discussion about what would happen after the deal closes now that we’ve been hooking up.

We’re supposed to break up, but that was before I started falling for him.

“It was at my apartment,” I say, then wait for his reaction. When his response is to reach for his glass and hand me the other, I continue. “Do you know what else I found there?”

“What?” He’s the picture of innocence.

“A completely redone apartment.” I flap my arms around, the incredulousness I felt earlier returning.

“You’re upset about your apartment being updated?” he asks.

“No. It’s not the new paint or the new light fixtures or the entryway plant or the fancy intercom system that I’m upset about.”

“So, what’s the problem?” He looks nonplussed and it only serves to frustrate me more.

“It’s done!” I gesture wildly. “And I had no idea. That’s the issue.”

“Okay.” His face is giving nothing away.

“My neighbor said everything was completed weeks ago. A key fob was sent to this address and signed for by you, yet I’ve never seen it. Can you explain that?”