I feel better knowing Marcus knows I’m here. That way if Barrett decides to strangle me with his giant hands in my sleep Marcus will alert the authorities. Unless Barrett pays him off. I’ll have to tell someone else I’m here. Unfortunately, ‘temporarily moved in with my fake boyfriend because my apartment has a mice infestation, among other issues’ isn’t the call I want to make to my parents, so I fire off a quick text to Jules.

ME: I’m moving in with Barrett. I’ll fill you in later, but in the meantime if I go missing…it was him.

JULES: WHAAAATTTTT???!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t have time to respond to her because Barrett is talking to me.

“Are you planning to live inside or just out here on the stoop?” Barrett unlocks the mailbox beside the door and takes out a handful of mail.

“I thought you’d have people to do that for you.”

“Check my mail?” he asks.

I shrug, then follow him inside.

“I’ve got an assistant, a driver, a housekeeper, and a chef who makes all my meals for the week. I can get my own mail.”

“Look at you doing hard things.” I toe off my tennis shoes at the door—it’s definitely a shoes off kind of home—and glance around.

I’m in shock. Natural wood floors and staircase, original crown molding.

Barrett drops the mail on the table by the door.

“Would you like a tour?” he asks.

“Um, yes, please,” I say, practically sprinting past him, deeper into the lion’s den I go.

He follows behind me, pointing out the rooms as I peek into them. Sitting room, dining room, kitchen, powder bath. It’s one surprise after another as I realize Barrett’s home isn’t a mausoleum made of stone and tile. It’s got color and warmth and oh my god…

I open the door to another room and my heart pitter patters with delight at what I find.

I don’t know where to look first. The walls of bookshelves filled from floor to ceiling. A gold chandelier that offsets the dark navy walls. Cognac leather couches arranged around a fireplace. Did I mention the bookshelves? And there’s a ladder, too. There’s an honest to God ladder so you can reach the books on the top shelf because the ceiling is at least twelve feet tall.

The wall across from the bookcases is an art collector’s dream. Various paintings are set into the wainscoting panels behind a large and very sturdy looking desk.

“This is my study,” Barrett says sternly. In contrast to his icy tone, his warm breath makes the loose hairs from my ponytail tickle my neck. “You won’t need to be in here.”

He reaches for the door to pull it closed, nearly smacking me in the nose, but my hand lifts, stopping the door’s movement.