Then he put the phone in the receiver, smiled again and invited, “Mr. Sebring says to go right up.”
Apparently, after he exposes the full psychopath, he forgets how to be a gentleman.
Whatever.
I tossed another smile at the doorman then stomped to the elevators trying not to look like I was stomping. Though, I did stub my finger with the strength I used to jab the elevator button.
Doors to one of the two sets opened, I walked in and they closed on me.
And as they did, where I was, the confrontation imminent, belatedly, I considered this might not be the best idea.
Before I could rethink, the doors opened and I was nearly bowled over by two men wearing navy pants, matching navy shirts and carrying boxes.
“God! Sorry!” one of them exclaimed.
Movers. On a Sunday. Weird.
“No problems,” I muttered, skirted them, sucked in breath and headed to Knight’s door.
Right, go in, say what I had to say and get out.
When I got there, the door was wedged open with a triangle of wood.
There was music coming from inside, it was soft, it was also classical, it was all piano and I didn’t even have a guess as to what it was.
I reached in, knocked on the door and called, “Knight?”
“Kitchen,” I heard his deep voice call back.
Yep, psychopath out, gentleman gone.
I walked down the hall and nearly bumped into two more men in navy pants and matching shirts who were carrying a mattress.
Was it Knight who was moving?
“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered, squeezing back against the wall to the kitchen and sucking in my stomach (like this would help, still, I did it) as they lumbered by me.
They passed. I righted myself, saw the living room in all its grandeur without bodies, empties and ashtrays and decided it sucked he wasn’t awesome and into me but psychotic and into me and turned the corner to the kitchen.
Then I stopped and stared.
No suit. Black tee, worn, fitting him way, way, way too well across the muscles of his back with, from what I could see with just his torso partially twisted to me, a faded out Metallica insignia. Faded jeans that also fit him way, way, way too well and since I had his back I could see his ass in them so I knew this for certain. Bare feet. Thick, black hair now definitely needing a cut, tousled and messy. Hands engaged in unwrapping something in white butcher paper. Face expressionless but no less gorgeous. Vibrant blue eyes on me.
Holy crap.
Metallica?
“Babe, come here.”
An order.
I instantly jolted out of my Knight’s a hot guy reverie.
Jerk!
I didn’t go there.
Instead, I asked, “Are you moving?”