Page 19 of Coco and the Misfits (The Candyverse #4)

COCO

A tticus’ address is in the city center.

I double-check it on my app to make sure I didn’t make a mistake while typing it in. Such an old-fashioned way of doing things, writing his phone number and address down on paper. Who does that anymore?

Okay, double-checked. City center it is.

I thought he’d be sending me to the rich suburbs. Did he actually say ‘house’ or was it me? I had expected a mansion with a pool and manicured lawns.

But as I walk over there and stop in front of a tall building, a tower really, I realize it’s an apartment.

I’m disappointed. Wait, maybe not. I like that it’s not far from where I live. It feels less like a creepy serial killer scenario.

Good news. I can walk here every day. Zach would be proud of me for the exercise. Keeping myself in shape.

My mood sours a little as I remember his anger when I said I’d take this job. He seems to hate Atticus, and Atticus hates Ryder, and Ryder… is a mystery.

All of them are mysteries, it seems. Even Zach, who had seemed transparent like glass, is now acting weird.

Taking a bracing breath, I enter the building. Marble, glass, brass. It looks like a hotel lobby, complete with a reception desk. Of course he’d live in a luxury high-rise apartment if he didn’t live in a mansion. I should have known.

A woman is sitting behind the desk. She looks up as I hesitantly approach. A beta, most probably, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, her suit red and immaculate. She wears pearl earrings.

That little detail makes me feel so out of place, it’s a struggle not to run away.

“May I help you?” She asks, all polite and proper. She rises, taking a good look at me, and her brows rise as well.

I’m wearing pink overalls and white combat boots with a floral design. I’ve pulled my pink hair back and caught the bangs with sparkly star-shaped pins. I thought I looked very professional, but now I’m not so sure.

“Hi!” I say brightly. “I’m Coco, here to clean Atticus’ home. I mean, Mr. Ford’s. Home. Apartment. Yes.”

Her brows now bunch together.

Shit. This is where she tells me there must have been a mistake. Her boss—is Atticus her boss?—would never have a girl like me over, let alone hire her, or let her touch his stuff. Seeing this lobby, I’m thinking the same. Who would blame her for throwing me out?

I take a step back. Glance at the door. “Or not. It may be a mistake. God knows it happens all the time. He probably said?—”

“Coco. Oh right! Mr. Ford told me about you. He didn’t mention you’re an omega.”

I study her elegant face. “Does it matter?”

“Of course not.” She smiles, but it’s kind of brittle. Doesn’t she like omegas? Is this the issue?

“What did he say about me?” I ask carefully.

“That I should be expecting you. I just didn’t expect you to be so…”

“Pink?” I suggest.

“So omega-like.”

“Well, thanks!” I preen. Can’t help it. Whenever someone tells me I look like an omega, it makes my little dark heart so happy. Sparkles fly. Unicorns fart rainbows. Stars fall like rain.

She clears her throat. “About cleaning products?—”

“Oh shit! I forgot about that.” Catching her stare, I wince. “Sorry.”

Will she tell Atticus I was swearing on the job?

“Mr. Ford told me to show you where the cleaning products are,” she says and doesn’t look upset, thank God. “This way, please. If you’ll follow me…”

Total luxury hotel vibes. Not that I’ve ever stayed in one, but I watch movies. I know what it’s supposed to look like, including the gold-and-glass elevator.

I may be a glitter-loving omega but this is a bit much. I feel as if someone dropped me inside a bowl of gems and gold. My reflection greets me in the mirrors lining the elevator box, and I look wide-eyed and small standing next to the beta in her power suit and power hair.

She looks professional. She looks like Superwoman, about to spin and transform her clothes into a red and blue suit complete with a cape.

I look like an anime character. A pink Pokémon.

So sexy, Coco.

The elevator stops and the doors ding as they open before I fall down the rabbit hole of comparisons. She sweeps out and… unlocks the only door there.

“The apartment takes the entire floor?” I blurt out.

“Oh, yes. And there is a terrace out back, for the Summer days or evenings.” She smiles at me, a little condescendingly, and pushes the door open. “Here we are. I’m Bridget, by the way.”

“A pleasure,” I murmur, nosing into the apartment, too curious to pay her any more attention. “Oh boy...”

The door opens into an enormous sitting area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city center and Palmer Park by the river.

The view is jaw-dropping. The furniture is simple and somber, dark leather and steel, but then my gaze snags on the—also floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering the far wall.

Shelves filled with books.

I almost clap my hands together. Jackpot. One thing I’ll always look for in a man— apart from a growly voice and a big dick, obviously, let’s not kid ourselves—is love of books.

All my friends are book lovers. Hell, Sawyer owns a book café. It should go without saying that any pack I’d choose should be into reading.

“And I am to give you a key copy,” Bridget says, briefly distracting me. She holds out a card. “Here. It unlocks both this door and the building door in case you’re here at night.”

Huh. I reach for the card on autopilot. It’s black and gilded—of course. More gold. “At night?”

“I’m only telling you what it’s for.” She… winks at me.

I clutch the card in my hand. “Okay?”

“Oh, and the cleaning supplies. Right here.” She walks confidently into the apartment, as if she’s been here a thousand times before, and opens a panel cleverly hidden in the wall. “All here.”

I don’t like her so much anymore. Is she friends with Atticus? Is she something more? Why is she so familiar with his apartment? A concierge, as far as I know, remains in the lobby. She doesn’t have keys and insider knowledge of the apartments in the building.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Her heels click on the polished floors as she crosses back to the door. “You know where to find me if you need anything. Mr. Ford said to open the fridge if you’re feeling puckish.”

“He did?”

“He said there is chocolate cake.”

My jaw drops, and before I get any more words out, she leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Excuse me? He bought a chocolate cake for me?

No, wait. Don’t be ridiculous, Coco. He didn’t even know you’d come for sure. He probably likes chocolate cake. That’s all.

A fellow chocolate-fan.

That makes me smile as I set out to explore the apartment. How can a guy who likes not only books but also the black gold be bad, right? Choc-lovers of the world unite. We know how to enjoy life.

Extra confirmation that Atticus is not a serial killer. You know, just in case.

He’s not a golden retriever like Zach, I think as I walk through the giant sitting area. More like a… golden wolf? A gray wolf. He certainly gives wolf vibes. Protective. Focused. Loyal.

He’d make a devoted top alpha in a pack.

At the end of the living room is the kitchen, a white-marble-island-and-counter combo with a few shiny steel appliances and gadgets. In a prominent position stands a professional-level coffee maker reminding me of the one Sawyer has at his café.

Hm… a coffee lover, too? What are the odds? Feeling firmly in fellow-addict territory here.

For instance, I bet Zach only drinks healthy smoothies for breakfast and has kale salads for lunch. Probably skips dinner altogether. There would never have been any future for us.

Nodding to myself, ignoring the strange little pang in my heart, because of course there was never a question of a future with Zach, I continue my exploration.

I make a beeline for the terrace, of course, and I sigh, twirling among the potted plants and outdoor furniture. Nice.

Then I go back inside and check room after room.

Just how big is this apartment? It’s even bigger than the one occupied by Bee’s pack, and they are five people, though of course they like piling together at night on an oversized bed.

Atticus lives here all alone.

Right?

It feels like an apartment made to fit an entire pack.

Strange. Then again, this is how rich people live. I’ve seen the TV shows. Why am I surprised?

There is an office. A gym. Two empty rooms. Bathrooms. What looks like a storeroom. And the master bedroom.

I stand at the entrance to the room, hesitating to enter. I’m supposed to enter every room, right? How else will I clean?

Although, seriously, what am I supposed to clean? This place is gleaming. No dust to be seen anywhere. No grime. No crumbs on the counters. No stains on the kitchen island.

Damn, I won’t get the satisfaction of cleaning something and seeing the difference.

Yeah, complain about it, Coco. Bitch and moan. ‘Oh God, my work isn’t hard enough. This place is so clean, I don’t have much to do.’

I could read books on my phone. Or grab books from his shelves. But maybe he has cameras watching me, to see if I’m working.

Shit.

That lights a fuse under my ass and I march over to the secret hideaway full of cleaning supplies. Let’s do this. It’s a job and I need money for the rent.

Clean what is already clean. Sure. No problem at all.

It’s just… if he’s living in a spotless apartment, what need did he have of little ol’ me?