Prodigal Son (Orphan X #6) - Gregg Andrew Hurwitz Page 0,10
with a Moroccan-tile backsplash, sage-green cabinets, and a rough-sawn farm table. A white plastic trash bag, neatly knotted, leaned against a wood-paneled refrigerator. A substantial picture window looked down at the Sunset Strip, alive with traffic lights and tall-wall billboards displaying It Girls and Boys like larger-than-life jewels. Or perishables.
He was distracted by that missed call. The woman behind it was proving to be persistent. What the hell did she want? Who had sent her?
Jeanette-Marie studied him, her eyes glinting. “Okay. Lemme guess. You’re a … sous-chef.”
Amused, he said, “Sure.”
Evan had an average build, the better to blend in. Just an ordinary guy, not too handsome. He kept his muscles toned but not pronounced. When he was dressed, it was hard to discern just how fit he was.
But he wasn’t dressed now.
Jeanette-Marie had certainly seen him up close, but she scanned him once more with the benefit of greater perspective. “No—wait.” She snapped her fingers. “A trainer! Hang on, no, like a physical therapist?”
He said, “Sure.”
“Okay. A sous-chef–trainer–physical therapist. We’ll leave it at that.” Her smile was radiant, youthful. “What do you think I do?”
“I think you’re a painter, educated at the Royal College of Art. You prefer to work in oils, and you teach part-time at UCLA.”
Her lips pressed together, her brow furrowed with incredulity. “Um. How…?”
He found his boxer briefs beneath a throw pillow that had lived up to its name. “You have calluses on the side of your left middle finger near the joint from holding a thin brush. Your shirt had paint stains on the cuff. Acrylics are water-based, so they would’ve washed out by now. So: oil. At the Polo Lounge—after you wouldn’t let me buy you a drink—you paid with a Bruin faculty credit-union card.”
She pursed her lips, taking a moment to catch up to this. “Okay, fine. But the Royal College?”
“You mentioned a favorite café on Prince Consort Road in London, which is right around the corner.”
She was sitting perfectly upright now on the mattress, her hands in her lap. “Wow. You actually pay attention.”
He unearthed one of his boots from beneath her flung-aside jacket. “Some people are worth paying attention to.”
“God,” Jeanette-Marie said. “You are the opposite of my ex. You’re the un-ex. Given how things ended with him, you’re exactly who I needed for the night.”
“It didn’t end well?”
“Let’s see. I got the house, so that’s good. But he got the bank accounts. Which were numerous. He’s an I-banker, Harvard asshole. You know the type. Quite different from us Royal College assholes.” Her grin lightened her face once more. “Opposites attract. Until they don’t.”
Evan thought of the scattering of freckles across Mia’s nose. That birthmark at her temple. The smell of her neck.
He said, “Right.”
“But when you fall for someone, it’s gonna be different, right? Every time. And then it’s not. It’s always not.” She pulled her curls up in the back, the moonlight striking the side of her neck. Evan paused to admire her.
“I’m the common denominator, though,” she continued. “So I shouldn’t blame Donnie. I mean, on paper? He’s really good. I think I fell in love with my image of him, which is even more powerful than being in love with a real person, because, man, what it takes to knock the shine off an image.” She shook her head. “He’s harmless enough. Just a cheater and a dick. I knew it for longer than I wanted to know it. But being alone? It gets old, right?”
Evan said, “Right.”
“That’s what I miss. Even more than the sex. Someone to … you know, cook dinner once in a while, take out the trash.”
Before he could respond, he heard the metallic purr of a key sliding into the front-door lock.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
The dead bolt retracted loudly, and the door swung open.
A guy in a rumpled suit sauntered across the threshold. Three men at his back with flashing eyes and bad energy—simmering hostility tempered by a whiff of sheepishness. They looked well lubricated, their movements loosened with alcohol, and they stank of tequila. An inferior spirit.
“Goddamn it, Donnie,” Jeanette-Marie said. “This isn’t your place anymore. Get out now. And give me your key or I’m changing the locks.”
Donnie threw his arms wide. “Well, look what we have here. My fucking wife in my fucking house with a naked fucking guy.” He spoke with the careful articulation of the very drunk.