in the right direction if Callum wasn’t so smugly confident he’s the shit.
Okay, so also, maybe I wasn’t one-hundred-percent honest.
I left one thing out. A teeny-tiny thing. So tiny, in fact, you could fit it in your back pocket. More specifically, the napkin. The contract. But for a good reason: it doesn’t matter. Mal clearly hasn’t kept it. He’s happily married. Plus, it’s just flat-out embarrassing.
I knock on the door a few more times, but it’s clear no one is home. How fitting of Mal not to be here just to spite me. Of course, Kathleen played along. I decide two (or rather, three) can play this game. I will not be standing outside getting pneumonia just because he has some illogical vendetta against me. The main street is far enough that we’ll have to call a cab to take us there if we want to warm up in a pub or an inn, waiting for his highness to arrive, and by the time a taxi gets here, we’ll be freezing.
I press my shoulder against the door and take a deep breath.
“Rory?” Callum asks behind me, his voice laced with worry.
“Promise not to judge me, Cal?”
“Promise.”
With a shove, I push the door, knowing damn well it isn’t locked, because last time—eight years ago—it wasn’t, either.
We spill into the house, which also looks a thousand times worse inside than it did before. Callum’s lips purse as he walks around, observing the old, ragged furniture and strewn-about newspapers, CDs, and vinyl records. There are poetry books and half-rolled, wrinkly notebooks on the couch and a coffee table and breakfast nook buried under piles upon piles of junk, dust and dirt everywhere.
I look around in shock, trying to spot one inch on the floor that’s not suspiciously sticky or covered with something.
I turn around to Cal, and his throat bobs, but he says nothing.
“I’m sorry you have to sleep here tonight.” I bite my lower lip.
It is a dump. Not because it’s small or old, but because it’s messy and filthy. It looks like no one has lived here in a while. Cobwebs adorn every corner of the room. Doesn’t matter that it’s freezing outside, I still find myself cracking a window just to get rid of the stale scent of a thousand takeout boxes left to rot somewhere in this place.
“It’s fine.” Callum tries to sound calm and collected, even though I know he pays his cleaners extra to come in every day and make sure everything is spotless in his Manhattan penthouse. “Quaint and charming. Besides, a roof is a roof. The people under it are what matters. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”
We spend the next twenty minutes touring the house. We start with the kitchen, where we find the root to the rancid smell: an unattended garbage bag sitting under the sink, a cloud of buzzing flies above it. Even though I don’t want to clean these two’s pigsty on principle, I also don’t want to puke, so I throw it out.
I walk through the narrow hallway afterwards. The master bedroom, which was his mother’s before Kathleen moved in, is completely empty, save for the king-sized bed that’s unmade. The pillows are a suspicious shade of dirty yellow, and the blanket could use a wash. I move to the bathroom, which has also seen better days, finally stopping at Mal’s then-room, and our guest room, I suppose. It has one made-up, single bed and a little closet. I turn around to Callum, but he just grins.
“Less room means more spooning. Not a bad Sunday.”
I should love this man.
I should.
And right now, I’m getting damn close to that elusive feeling.
“No part of this is your fault,” he adds. “So don’t you dare apologize.”
We move to the last room down the hallway, and it is locked—possibly the studio Ryner was talking about. That might explain the deadbolt, padlock, and STAY OUT sign on the door.
Callum gets right to business, wheeling my suitcase into our room, while I open the rusty door leading to the backyard to see if the sheep and cows are out and about.
There are no more sheep.
No more cows.
There’s no more…anything, really.
I take a step out, and something crunches under my shoe. I look down, frown, and pick up an earring. Just the one. Must be Kathleen’s. A drop-shaped pink diamond earring. It looks fake, but then again, so is she. Maybe they’re hard up for cash. No other reason for Mal to take this writing gig.