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Serena
Iturn off the stovetop burner and pour the melted butter over my popcorn, then sprinkle it liberally with parmesan. If I can’t have Archer right now, I can gorge myself with snacks at any rate.
And after that phone call yesterday morning, maybe it’s better to have some breathing room. This way, I have privacy to wallow in my mortification. At least everything up to the very end had been amazing. If he can get me going like that from halfway around the world, how much hotter will it be once he’s finally back home?
Assuming he’ll want anything to do with me.
Ugh.
I walk over to the couch and bring up Netflix on the TV, checking my phone for the millionth time, but he still hasn’t called or responded to the text I sent earlier. From what it sounded like a few days ago, his father has him busy all day, and it doesn’t help that we’re on opposite schedules, but has he really not had a chance to reach out to me?
Or does he just not want to?
I queue up The IT Crowd, but before the intro can finish, there’s a knock at the door. Crap, this is the thing I always hated about living alone. There’s no one else to answer the door.
I press pause and get up, freezing halfway there as something occurs to me. This is the penthouse. You can’t even take the elevator up without permission from the lobby attendant. Lori’s already gone home for the day, as well as the contractors still working on my old bedroom and bathroom. So who’s on the other side?
Wait, could it be… Archer? Is that why I haven’t heard from him? Is he here to surprise me?
I rush to the entryway, biting my lip to contain my smile, but as I open the door, I sober immediately. It’s not Archer.
It’s two police officers.
“Serena Montague?” the taller one asks, his hands settled on his belt, perilously close to his gun.
I go still, swallowing hard. “Yes?”
“We’ve received notice that you’re trespassing. We’re here to escort you off the premises.”
I blink stupidly, the words not registering. “What?”
He repeats his spiel, but it doesn’t make any more sense upon repeating.
“No, there must be some kind of mistake. This is my husband’s apartment.”
The second officer grabs a paper out of his back pocket and unfolds it. “We have the owner here listed as Harold Bishop. Is that your husband?”
“No, that’s my father-in-law.” My heart pounds, practically a death knell in my ears, and I grab onto the door frame for balance. “I- I don’t understand. I live here.”
The two exchange glances, the taller one narrowing his eyes. “Ma’am, do you have any kind of claim of residency here? A lease agreement? Bills? Anything with your name on it?”
I shake my head, my throat closing up. What’s going on right now?
“Eviction laws are different, but if you can’t prove you’re a tenant, we can’t help you.”
“But I have permission to be here. From his son.”
“Well, where is he?”
My lower lip trembles. “He’s out of the country.”
The second office makes ahmmnoise in the back of his throat. “That’s convenient.”
“No, no. I’ll call him. You can talk to him. He’ll tell you this is a mistake.”
I turn around and make a mad dash for the coffee table, my hands shaking so badly, I nearly drop my phone.
“Ma’am, if you’re not calling the owner, it doesn’t really mean anything.”