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The perfection of it makes me want to go untuck his bedspread and rumple his sheets or leave a few drawers askew. Disrupt his order just the tiniest bit.

But I also don’t want to leave any evidence behind.

Hurrying out to the main room, I draw in a sharp breath. The furnishings are still heavy and masculine, but here, there’s a much homier feel than his bedroom. Warmer. Almost cozy.

The couch is leather, but it’s the supple kind that looks like you’d sink comfortably when you sit. A navy chenille throw blanket is tossed casually over the back of it. A newspaper sits folded on the seat of an armchair upholstered in a plush blue patterned fabric.

A number of potted plants, the kind I can’t afford and probably wouldn’t be able to keep alive anyway, enhance the hominess of the space. Sophie could tell me their names, but I’m going to assume most are the only indoor plant whose name I know: the fiddle leaf fig.

Rather than a giant television like I’d expect to see, on the wall across from the couch hangs a large painting of what appears to be a western landscape: fields with scattered cows and snow-capped mountains in the background. It’s the kind of picture you could stare at for hours and dream about climbing into it.

A few other smaller, abstract paintings adorn the walls. Not the weird kind of abstract that makes me question art and whether it’s really a big inside joke and preschoolers are the ones actually making it. But attractive swaths of color that look intentional and balanced and really liven up the large room.

The space looks warm and inviting. There’s even a half-full glass of water on the coffee table.

Gasp! A glass left on the table without a coaster?

Perhaps Archer Gaines is human, after all.

But I don’t have time to test out how comfy his couch is or relish in confirmation of his humanity.

I need to get out before he returns.

At the front door, I hesitate.

What about the cookies? I could just leave them in the hallway and text Bellamy to say that no one answered the door. While I like the residents of The Serendipity and think it’s a safe place, I don’t trust people, as a general rule. Especially not when it comes to something tempting like a box of delicious—unless you’re Archer—cookies left in the hall.

What’s the likelihood the cookies will still be here when Bellamy returns to the apartment?

I’d feel safer leaving them on the marble island in the kitchen—a counter so gorgeous I’d like to climb up and lie down on just to feel the cool marble on my skin. But that would be evidence I’ve been inside Archer’s apartment. Again.

Debating, I set the cookies down and slide my phone out of my pocket, sending Bellamy a text.

Willa

Sorry it’s so late, but I’ve got your cookies! Can I bring them up?

I try not to wince at the lie. I mean,technicallyit’s not a lie. My text makes no false statements. But it does imply I’m in my apartment asking this question. Not standing inside Archer’s kitchen, lusting over his glorious island and considering pulling a Goldilocks on his leather couch.

Bellamy

Unfortunately, you missed me. I’m on a train to Boston, then back to New York until late next week.

Willa

I’m so sorry! I should have come earlier.

Bellamy

It’s fine. I didn’t let you know when I was leaving. Just leave them with Archer. If for some reason he’s not there, put a note on the box saying they’re from me.

Bellamy

Perhaps he’ll even eat some and the sugar will loosen him up. But that will mean I’ll need another order when I return next week.

I chuckle. The man really does love his sweets. I thought, at first, maybe Bellamy just felt sorry for me. That he was trying to make up for Archer’s coldness by ordering dozens of cookies.

Or maybe that he sensed my desperation for more business.