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“If only the building came with less people,” I mutter, setting the nearly empty bottle back down.

Bellamy turns back with a smile, but before he can utter whatever remark is on his tongue, there’s a knock.

I know it’s Willow again before Bellamy even opens the door—there’s something irritating in the rap of knuckles against wood.

“Hello again,” Bellamy says, grinning.

Willow’s gaze flicks to me. “Um, hello.”

“I’m Bellamy. You can call me Bellamy. Or Bell. I also answer to Alfred.”

I groan. “That’s not your name. Stop telling people that. You’re not my assistant anymore and were never my butler.”

“It might as well be.” Bellamy leans toward Willow and, in a stage whisper, says “It’s a long-running joke, though an apt one. I’m the Alfred to his reclusive and eccentric billionaire Bruce Wayne.”

“Billionaire?” Her eyes widen, and now I really want to toss Bellamy from the rooftop.

“He doesn’t like to talk about his money,” Bellamy whispers dramatically.

“O-kay…” Willow looks between us again, and her hair—finally—comes tumbling down. She quickly twists it up again, securing it with a hair tie from her wrist without bothering to look for the one that must have fallen out.

“This is Willow,” I say.

She glares. “It’s Willa. With an A.”

Willow’s—Willa’s—voice is icy. Deservedly so.

I hate that I forgot. Again. Names are simple. But names are one thing that do not stick in my brain, especially when meeting people for the first time or if I’m in a new or uncomfortable situation.

There’s a pause, probably one in which I could easily fit an apology, but my throat feels too tight to speak.

“I’m sorry, Willa,” Bellamy says cheerfully, perhaps sensing my vocal freeze. “Can we help you with something? Did you, perhaps, leave your shoes here?”

“No, I …” Willow glances down at her bare feet, and when she looks up again, this time at me, her cheeks are flushed pink. “I have a little problem.”

I step forward, edging Bellamy out of the way as I regain my composure. With an arch of an eyebrow, he steps back but hovers close enough to be part of the conversation. Unfortunately.

Despite his many redeeming qualities, the man consumes gossip like some people drink coffee.

“Anotherlittle problem?”

She frowns. “I’d hardly call”—Willow frowns at Bellamy like she also doesn’t want to explain earlier events—“what happened earlier alittleproblem.”

“More of a legal problem,” I mutter. “Or it would be if I weren’t in such a forgiving mood.”

“Thisis you in a forgiving mood?”

“Archie missed nap time today, I’m afraid,” Bellamy says, shifting forward again to reinsert himself into the conversation. “It has quite the impact on his mood.”

“Archie?” she asks, looking at me with the slightest upturn of a smile.

“Archer,” I correct.

“See?Grumpy,” Bellamy whispers.

At this, Willow smiles, and a flash of irritation moves through me at the way Bellamy has already won her over. It’s one of his special skills—one that makes him indispensable to me. He’s the charmer; I’m the curmudgeon.

Right now, I wish he’d be a little less charming.