“Later, Olivia.”
“’Bye, Sebring.”
We hung up.
Ten minutes later, he texted his address.
I finished paying bills.
Then I spent way too long finding the exact perfect outfit with shoes and accessories and primping with the intent of looking utterly, amazingly fabulous at the same time hoping my outfit came off like I was doing nothing important, just heading over to some guy’s house for spaghetti and a fuck.
I did all this convincing myself the path was marked.
But knowing in the deepest recesses of my mind that I was already lost.
* * * * *
Before I left, as Harry had taught me (in case of emergency, which I decided to think of this as that), I carefully took off the tracker my father had placed on my car.
I also checked to see if any of the boys were in their usual places when they randomly sat and watched my house.
When I saw all was clear, I headed out.
But even with my sat nav, I got lost on the way to Nick’s.
This was because I did not trust my sat nav because I did not expect him to be living in the location at which it was pointing.
It was across the tracks LoDo, to the northeast along South Platte River, beyond Confluence Park and amongst a bunch of dead end streets, train tracks, supply warehouses and large self-storage units.
Even in this urban no man’s land, his building was well-kept, exceptionally so, if nondescript considering it had been a warehouse prior to its resurgence to what it was now.
It was a new renovation. I knew this because it looked it, there were very few cars in the parking lot (two, exactly) and there was a sign out front that said units were for sale.
The building was painted light gray with darker gray and black detailing, this detailing being mostly brickwork and some signage but also a variety of iron stairwells on the outside of the building (there were four, one on each side).
The huge windows were multipaned, likely how they’d always been, but it was obvious they’d been switched out for new.
The parking lot had to have been redone completely, considering the fact it now had green space with fledgling trees that would one day be beautiful and throw a great deal of shade.
And the lighting around the building did not invite the unwanted there for nefarious ends, as could be found in this neighborhood where there wasn’t much population and not much happened after close of the scattered businesses.
I followed the signs to the unit Nick’s text gave me and slid my Evoque into a spot outside it that was next to one of the two cars in the lot, a red Jaguar F-TYPE coupe.
The car was gorgeous. It was also totally Nick—handsome, hot, fast and sleek.
I wanted to ride in that car with Nick.
I was never going to ride in that car with Nick.
This knowledge weighed heavily on me as I looked to the top of the iron stairway and saw a large, square, warehouse door to the side of which were big, modern, black metal letters that said Unit 8.
“What are you doing, Livvie?” I whispered.
But even doing so, without delay, I pushed open my door and swung my carnation pink patent leather Jimmy Choo, spike-heeled pump out.
I got out of my car. I beeped the locks. I walked up the iron steps. And I stood in the recess, knocking on the big, square door.
I dropped my hand and my head, staring at the pointed toes of my fabulous pumps peeking out from the bootleg hems of my expertly faded (because I bought them that way), low-rise jeans.