they’re visible to the naked eye. He’s standing by The Door That Shall Not Be Opened. Except it’s open, and he’s standing next to it, and his smile is wavery and tentative.
Maybe he’s still suffering from Popup Palooza hangover? Or exhausted from ferrying everyone from Peach Pit around town, personally? Yes, Mr. Busypants actually took half a day off yesterday, during the second day of the popup event, and we all drove around town in a stretch limo, taking the crew to the tourist sites. When they tried to make snarky comments about my clothes and hair, he blithely deflected them, talking about how fashion-forward I am and how my movie-star clients keep asking where they can buy the outfits I’m wearing.
And after that, he insisted on giving me the rest of the day off so I could spend more time with my family and take everybody to a Broadway musical.
My parents swelled with pride, and my heart melted at Blake’s kindness. I know that he did what he did with the best of intentions – although I also privately reminded him that not all surprises are good ones. He’s promised to check with me first next time.
“So, here we are. The mystery door.”
“Yep, the mystery door,” he echoes flatly. No snarky remark? That’s…different.
I follow him through the door into a short hallway. “Just checking. Are you planning on killing me and hiding my body back here?” It’s hushed and quiet back here, an overhead light panel throwing a sickly white light onto faded maroon Oriental carpeting. “It would be the perfect murder. Nobody would ever find me.”
Blake snorts in amusement. “What the hell, woman? Have you been watching Hallmark Movies and Mysteries again?”
“You know I have.” In fact I forced him to watch one with me last night. Afterwards, we watched his choice: a sci-fi shoot-‘em-up. My dirty little secret is, I also love sci-fi shoot-‘em-ups, so I got my choice twice in a row. Winning!
“Well, for the record, I haven’t been tempted to murder you in weeks. Not seriously tempted, anyway.”
I follow him down the hall to an ornately carved wooden door. He pulls the door open; the hinges creak in protest.
A musty odor tickles my nostrils, and I sneeze violently. "I've never been to this part of the floor before."
"Nobody has, for twenty years. It was my father’s office.” He tries to keep his voice light and breezy, but it’s laden with hidden pain.
"Oh. You haven’t been in here since…” My voice trails off.
He walks in, and I follow him. A gust of cool air blows from the air conditioning vent in the wall.
"No, I haven't set foot in here since the accident.”
I put my hand on his arm and give it a squeeze, and he flashes me a quick, pained smile.
We’re squinting in the darkness. Heavy curtains cover a floor-to-ceiling window. He flips a switch on the wall, but the lights have apparently burned out.
Heaving a sigh, he walks over to the window and opens the curtains. The tracks make a squeaking nose as he pushes the curtains back, and light floods in, illuminating a room stuffed with bulky, outsized furniture. Facing us are a gold-inlaid teakwood desk that could easily seat half a dozen executives, and behind it a wall of bookshelves full of fashion magazines, oversized books of photography, and golf trophies.
A leather sofa and chairs cluster around a clunky coffee table. Opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a wall full of industry awards and photographs of Blake’s father posing with models and actresses who were famous decades ago.
Not a single family photo that I can see. Not even any pictures with just him and his wife.
Blake surveys the office in a long, sweeping glance, a wry twist to his mouth. "It was pretty over-the-top.”
It was, but it was also his father’s office. I’d never say a bad thing about it. "Well, he would have decorated it in the nineties. That was the style back in the day.”
“Eh. It’s okay. Gordon Gekko and Louis the Fourteenth had a love child, and he grew up and decorated my dad’s office. Hey, look at me, I can make a joke about it.” He grins, but his eyes are twin reflecting pools of hidden pain.
“I’m hardly one to talk about parental decorating choices. My mom and my dad have been in a decorating war since the day he carried her across the threshold. Both of them go for redneck chic, just in frighteningly clashing styles. I say that