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He just finished his second dozen, and it’s Friday. Willa is probably thrilled with the extra business.

I haven’t seen Willa when she’s dropped off the cookies, only heard her voice. And felt strangely jealous over the sound of her laughter at something Bellamy said. I’m not sure what it is about Willa that has burrowed under my skin.

I want to see her at my door rather than strain to hear the sound of her voice from the safety of my office.

I also want her to move out of the building.

PossiblybecauseI want to see more of her. Distance from a woman who intrigues me for no good reason seems like a safe bet.

But it’s hard to get distance when Bellamy keeps ordering the damn cookies, bringing her to my door. Even just him eating the cookies is a constant and unwelcome reminder of her. She might as well have been sitting next to me on the couch, tapping a foot impatiently, those blue eyes fixed on me.

“Don’t get crumbs on my new couch,” I say.

Bellamy grins and continues chewing. “Are you sure you want me back in New York? I could stay another week until you’ve got things settled,” Bellamy says, his voice kinder now.

I frown.

Why do I prefer it when he argues with me?

Probably because in my life, kindness always seems to go hand in hand with pity, and there’s nothing I hate more. Except maybe people who clip their fingernails in public places.

“I’m settled.”

“Or at least until you find another building manager.”

“I have a list of prospects right here.” I tap my phone. It’s a slim list, but it’s a start.

“And how many have responded to our inquiries?” he asks.

He knows the answer. It’s none.

“Have any of the plumbers returned our calls?”

“No.”

It’s been crickets. Or what’s worse than crickets—roaches?

Apparently, we have those too, in one of the first-floor apartments.

But as with the plumbers, no exterminators have answered their phones or called back. Same with electricians to help figure out why the lights on the left side of the first floor keep blinking.

If I believed in Galentine’s magic, I’d say I’ve been cursed. A very specific curse, foiling every effort I make to do anything with The Serendipity.

“At the very least, you now have a larger list of local services you can contact since you’ve struck out so far,” Bellamy says. “I created a full spreadsheet with all the electricians, plumbers, exterminators, and handypersons I could find in the greater Serendipity Springs area.”

“Handypersons?”

He shrugs. “Several on the list are women. So, yes … handypersons. Though it does sound odd. The S on the end makes me think ofhandsy, nothandy, for some reason. Maybe it should be handypeople? In any case, you have a list.”

“Thank you. That should suffice.”

“Do you want me to call anyone else today?”

What I would like is for Bellamy to call all the people—handy and otherwise. I’d like to get back to an office that isn’t filled with years of someone else’s inability to set up a filing system. A job in which I have several layers of protection against having to deal with people. In New York, I always had Bellamy and several administrative assistants acting as my defense.

Here, I have no defenses. No protections. Every resident knows where I live—and they’re allright here. They now also have my phone number.

But going back to New York isn’t possible. And even if it were, it wouldn’t be a respite. I would be walking back into the same dumpster fire I left. Better to send Bellamy back. He needs to be running Archway Investments, not making phone calls to plumbers. And it’s the best thing for me not to show my face until some other scandal eclipses mine.