High Jinx by Kelley Armstrong

Author:Kelley Armstrong [Armstrong, Kelley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: K.L.A. Fricke Inc

* * *

Once again, I don’t drop the matter there. I want him to know, beyond any doubt, that he doesn’t need to take me to his place. I give him every opportunity, but he is resolved, which is just hellishly awkward.

Then we arrive at his condo and . . .

“This isn’t a condo,” I say.

He clears his throat. “Technically, it is an investment property, and it is zoned for rental.”

“It’s a house, Aiden. A house in Boston. Not the suburbs. Not the outskirts. This is a house in the core of Boston.”

He clears his throat, but only says, “Yes.”

“It’s also freaking gorgeous.” I walk to the plaque that declares it a historic building.

“It really is too big for one person,” Connolly says.

Is that his concern? A show of ostentatious wealth? It’s hardly a mansion. While I can’t see the whole thing from the sidewalk, it seems smaller than my family home.

“It’s what, three bedrooms?” I say.

“Two, actually.”

“Then that’s perfectly reasonable for a single person,” I say. “You said it’s an investment property.”

“Yes.”

“Makes sense. You’ve invested in real estate, and you’re living here while the market climbs. Nothing wrong with that.” I motion at the gate. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I unlatch it, and we walk it. The gardens are in full bloom. A gardener’s work, I presume. While I personally would be delighted to think Connolly had a secret passion for gardening—or any relaxing hobby—I know he’d never find the time to keep up his yard like this.

We climb the steps, and he unlocks the door and then hurries in to disarm the security system. I enter into a small foyer. Lead-glass doors lead to a room on either side and stairs in front of us. Through one glass door, I see an empty space.

“I didn’t see the point in decorating a room I don’t use,” he says.

The other door leads into a study. I look around for a living area. There isn’t one. The study attaches to yet another empty space.

“The dining room,” he says. “I don’t use that either. It’s just this and the upstairs. Well, part of the upstairs. One bedroom. Oh, and the kitchen. I do use the kitchen. That’s where I’d eat. Not much point in a dining room table for one.”

Is this the problem then? His very empty house? Again, I’d hope for more—some sign he’s made himself a comfortable little nest where he can retreat and decompress. As tiny as my Boston place had been, it’d been that for me. Yet Connolly is efficient to his core, and he’d see no point in comfy armchairs or sofas. When would he ever find the time to curl up on one? He has expectations to exceed.

“It’s very you,” I say.

He glances over. “That is not a compliment.”

I smile. “I’d like to see a worn recliner, with a bookmarked novel, but I know that isn’t your style. Yours is more . . .”

“Antarctica without the penguins?”

“Pfft, no. Who said that? Oh, right. It was me, wasn’t it? Fine.

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