Page 71 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

“You must be feeling better.”

“I am.” Once I got in Oliver’s car and he shut the gull-wing door behind me, I stopped shaking. The closer we got to the penthouse, the easier I could breathe. Stepping through the front door, I’m safe.

“Are you hungry?”

“No.” Oliver takes in the open floor plan and the stairs leading to the bedrooms and asks, “How long have you lived here?”

“I don’t know.” I step out of my shoes. “Ahhh…” I sigh as the floor tiles warm my toes. The good thing about living above a hotel is room service. The bad thing is… I’ll have to think on it.

I pick up the phone and order roast chicken and Caesar salad. It’s kind of like living at Hawthorne, only smaller and with fewer bathrooms.

Oliver moves to the windows, and I call out to him across the kitchen and living room, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?” Lately, I’ve been craving roasted chicken and Caesar salad for no apparent reason. Back home chicken is fried, and there are generally three kinds of salad: cowboy, potato, and baked bean.

“I won’t be here that long,” he answers without turning from the view.

Once I finish ordering dinner, I join him. Tonight is the second time Oliver has rescued me. First when I got lost jogging and now when I raced from the cocktail party. I’m grateful. He’s too rude to be my knight in shining armor, too stubborn to be a saint, but he makes me feel like I can count on him. “I

t’s a great view,” I say, and he makes a sound of agreement. “The palm trees are a pain in the backside, though. The arborists said they’re not getting enough direct light, like I control the sun.” I shrug. “There are special lights in the ceiling that are supposed to kick on, but I was gone and the timers got turned off.” I like him. Despite what he says, he must like me, too. He followed me into the penthouse without being asked, but he hasn’t said much. If he doesn’t want to talk, why’d he come inside? “I know you promised Marv and Claire that you’d make sure I got home all right, like I can’t ride a dang elevator by myself, but why are you still here?”

“Curiosity is clouding my better judgment.”

“Havin’ second thoughts about kissin’ my behind?”

“I’ve never thought of kissing your ass a first time, let alone a second.” He turns to face me, framed by a checkerboard of brightly lit windows next to patches of black frames. The glow of Detroit skyscrapers seems to reach up and touch the stars, while the Broadway lights just outside make Oliver Hunt look like he’s a leading man at a movie premiere. “I’m curious why you ran out of the Hickory’s like your tail was on fire.”

“It was just time to go.”

He shakes his head. “Try again.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Or even think about it.

“Why?”

“Oh, now you want to get all chatty when you acted like talkin’ gave you pains before.”

“Like putting socks on a duck?”

“Close. Rooster.” I do give him points for trying and, let’s face it, for being so handsome.

He brushes his suit jacket aside and shoves a hand in the pocket of his trousers. “Why do you want to punch Troy Wickerson in the face?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why don’t you want to answer?”

“Are you a CIA interrogator?”

“No.”

“Lawyer?”

“In my past life.”

In my past life I was a cosmetologist. “What are you now?”

“I invest in real estate. What’s the problem with Troy?”

“You’re like a tick.” I give in and answer his question with one of my own. “Did you see the way he was lookin’ at me?”