Page 17 of The Allure of Ruins

I n the movies and on TV, FBI agents are fun and engaging. In real life, they were very yes and no with their answers, there was no smiling, and they waited outside my apartment instead of venturing inside. Apparently, there would be no banter about my lack of décor.

I was fairly certain that because I was dreaming of a house, saving money, and my place was filled with paint samples and design magazines, that this was the reason my apartment seemed like I just moved in.

“I have never been in a space that was less you,” Colton said.

I couldn’t argue that point.

“Our office is more you than me, and though certain parts of my place have no trace of you?—”

“The patio needs a makeover,” I reminded him for the hundredth time.

“—even my place looks more like you.”

“I need to get my house soon.”

“Which will be where?” he asked as he pulled my suitcases out of my closet.

“Lincoln Park, I hope, or maybe Albany Park, or Oak Park, or?—”

“A park, I get it.”

I grinned at him.

“Pack all the clothes, even the dirty ones, all your face and hair crap, and pack the suits last because I know for a fact your garment bag is still in my closet from when I borrowed it for my trip to Cancun with the guys over Christmas.”

I whirled around quickly so he didn’t see me smile.

“It wasn’t that bad!” he yelled defensively.

I would not utter a word.

“At least I know now that I am, in fact, very allergic to certain kinds of shellfish.”

I lost it. I still had the pictures on my phone.

I had no idea people could literally turn green.

I’d always thought it was merely a funny phrase someone came up with.

I was so happy all his friends knew me, so they made certain to share fun and interesting photos of Colton when I wasn’t around.

I was so thankful for photos of him hanging over a toilet bowl with the caption, “praying for death” with many laughing emojis.

“You should have never left me over the holidays,” I scolded him. “I hope you learned your lesson.”

“Left you?”

“I will say, though, that I had an amazing time up at your family’s cabin in Lake Geneva. It was like a postcard come to life. I had no idea Wisconsin was that beautiful. The only thing missing was you.”

“Do you listen to yourself when you?—”

“It was fun. I never made Christmas cookies before.”

“Yes, I know. I got lots of pictures of you and my family from everyone,” he muttered. “You all had a nice time.”

“It was much better than nice,” I informed him. “I got to sleep on the couch, by the fire, with the tree lit up with lights all night long. It was the best. And the next day, on Christmas, your dad took me with him to put some food out for the deer.”

“Yeah. My dad took a really nice picture of you walking in the snow with the trees behind you. You look deep in thought. He sent it to me.”

I sighed. “Your dad is amazing. You know he let me use his snowblower.”

He groaned like he was in pain. “I saw those pictures as well.”

“He taught me how to string popcorn too.”

“God,” he grumbled, walking to my bedroom.

“And your mom showed me how to make her yummy bread pudding.”

He mumbled something as I joined him in the bedroom.

“What did you say?”

“I said it must be nice for her to share that with you when my sister and my cousins have been begging for years.”

“Really?” How thoughtful of his mother to not only give me her recipe, but go through it, step-by-step, with me. I would have to send her a card and thank her again.

“Hurry up and pack before the nice FBI agents shoot us.”

The packing did not take long. Besides my clothes and all the things in my bathroom, there really wasn’t much. Even the agents were surprised by how little I possessed.

“Was this place furnished when you moved in?” one of the agents asked, leaning in and glancing around.

I nodded.

“Yeah, it looks like it.”

That wasn’t very nice.

“You have no plates or silverware of your own?” the other asked me.

“No. I never found anything I really liked.”

“Okay, can we go?” Colton said belligerently. “Being here always makes me sad.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I scolded him.

“Yeah, but he’s right,” the first agent said.

I had lots of clothes on hangers because I had—probably—too many shoes, and they alone filled one suitcase. There were coats, jackets, and sweaters as well. It was nice when the agents offered to help schlep. I needed to reassess them being stuffy.

On the way to Colton’s apartment, I had to roll down the window in the back.

“He’s nauseous because he’s hungry,” Colton advised the agents.

“If you want, we can stop at Theory since it’s on the way to Bucktown and open late,” the first agent suggested. “The food is good, and we can check the scores.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Anything,” he said.

“Fine,” I agreed. “But first, since we’re going to share a meal, what are your names?”

“I’m Beale, and he’s Diaz,” Beale said with a smile. “You’re all right, kid.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” I told him. “Not a kid at all.”

“You don’t strike me as twenty-eight, and besides, anyone younger than me is a kid.”

“That’s right,” Diaz concurred.

Theory was a sports bar, but that did not interest me in the least. Only my amazing Tuscan turkey sandwich that I ate with waffle fries and sweet-potato tots. Colton shook his head as I wiggled in my seat with happiness.

“At least he’s enjoying his food,” Diaz pointed out.

Colton nodded, finishing his Southwest salad, because unlike me, he’d eaten with his friends earlier that night.

I was supposed to have eaten at Mr. Somerset’s, but because of Janelle, I had to abandon my plate.

Colton had a previous engagement, so he’d chosen to eat with people he liked instead and make a cursory appearance at Mr. Somerset’s dinner.

And then, of course, he ended up having to collect me.

“I gotta tell you something funny,” I began, grinning. “Jonah hit on Mr. Somerset’s seventeen-year-old daughter.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he rumbled. “How is that funny?”

“Because he had no idea she was seventeen.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No.”

“Yes. Had no idea at all. He thought she was in her twenties.”

“Which is still too young for him.”

“But not illegal.”

“And you did what?”

“I interfered because she looked uncomfortable, and you know I always have to say something in those situations.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It turned out fine, because he was mortified and I persuaded her to change out of her little black dress and into actual cold-weather clothing.”

“That was helpful.”

“Because I’m always helpful,” I concluded.

“And hungry,” Diaz chimed in. “That’s impressive how many carbs you put away.”

I smiled at him.

“So since you helped the man, is that why he’s suddenly Jonah? Did you bond after you stepped in?”

“I think we did.”

“I don’t care. You’re not allowed to go work for him.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “He doesn’t actually want me, he’s only worried because he’s losing Tobias.”

“Who?”

“His assistant.”

“Which one is Tobias?”

“You said he dresses like he should be parking cars at an Italian restaurant.”

Beale smiled. “I can totally see this guy in my head.”

“Right?” Colton said, then grinned at me. “Okay, so why is he losing Tobias?”

Reaching across the table, I slipped my hand around his wrist, because I always had to touch him when we were talking. “Because Drummond Burgess is coming to work at the firm on Monday, and Tobias is going to work for him.”

“Drummond?”

I waggled my eyebrows at him.

“David Burgess named his kid Drummond?”

“Maybe it’s a family name and he had no choice,” Beale offered.

“I think you say no in those situations,” Colton replied.

“Oh, I’m certainly not arguing with you,” Beale said as he ate another fry.

“What does that shorten to?” Colton asked me. “Drum?”

I gasped, and his grin made his eyes glint. “I asked the same question, and apparently yes, you will call him Drum, not Mond.”

“Mond is terrible,” Diaz put in. “Drum isn’t much better.”

“These are rich people, am I right?” Beale asked.

I nodded. “Drummond is the first name partner’s son.”

“Are you a partner?” Diaz asked me.

“Oh no, I’m just a lowly assistant. But my boss here, he’s in charge of the pro bono department at Burgess, Mayhew, and Somerset.”

“So you do what?” Beale asked Colton.

“We take on cases for free to serve justice.”

“For free? No shit?”

“No shit,” Colton said with a grin.

“Well, that’s all right,” Diaz told him.

After dinner—Colton treated all of us—we reached his place in Bucktown fairly quickly, turning onto the 1700 block of West Webster Avenue.

I was impressed with Beale’s parallel parking prowess, and I appreciated both him and Diaz helping us carry again.

They both liked the security of the video entry system—much safer for me.

“That place where you live is scary,” Diaz assured me. “This has the nice little lobby area here, but then to get upstairs to the fifth floor, you need a code or someone has to buzz you in from their phone.”

I squinted at him.

“You can’t be too careful.”

They were both really nice guys, and I appreciated all they’d done, but it was still amazing when they left. My social battery was running on fumes at that point, and when it was just me and Colton alone in his quiet, warm, two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment, I nearly cried with relief.

“You’re okay,” he comforted me, taking his hat off me, giving my head a quick scratch, and then going to hang my clothes in the guest-room closet. It was the same size as the one in his room, both walk-ins with mahogany wood shelves.