Page 32 of The Crowned Garza

“Saint,” I stubbornly return.

The curse he mutters is quiet and barely audible, but it’s still as sharp as a knife stabbing me in the ear. There’s another stretch of silence, in which I don’t give in this time.

He ends the call.

Why on earth did I tell him I’m staying? No idea. Before the call, I had no plans on spending the day. But then his voice was in my ear and suddenly I was saying weird shit. Something about him makes me irrational—more so than usual—and stubborn.Argh.

My phone goes off again.

Dom calling…

Not in the mood to talk to him yet, I let it ring out.

As soon as it stops ringing, a text message pings in from my brother. What’s with everyone hitting me up just when I’m trying to get in some sustenance?

Tripp:Where you at? Why does Mom think you’re at my house? Why are all your trackers off?

Me:Doing grown woman shit. Cover for me.

Tripp:What grown woman shit? You tryna get whooped?

Me:Stay out of my business, please and thanks.

Tripp:We’re gonna need to have a chat.

Tripp:And turn on your damn trackers!

Stupidly enough, I didn’t turn off my trackers. Besides me, Saint is the only one with remote access to my trackers. He must’ve thought ahead last night and turned them off for me. Something I should’ve done the moment I realized he lives in the Red Cage building.

There are times when I’m grateful rather than annoyed that he has remote access to my life. This is one of those times.

I set my phone face down and ignore every ping and buzz as I take the time to enjoy my delicious breakfast.

~

AFTER NEARLY ANhour on the phone reassuring Dom that we’re good, I spend the rest of the day lounging around the loft, alternating between watching cooking competitions and checking job listings.

At one point, Indy’s door rattles open and she pads out, glares at me, then struts leisurely throughout the loft, circles the couch I’m on, then pads back to her room and shuts the door.

Must be getting her step counts in.

At sundown, while sipping ginger tea and idly gazing out the wall of windows, I spot my brother, Trent, down in the parking lot and instinctively lurch backward before remembering that all the windows on this building are one-way. Plus, judging from the distance below, this is undoubtedly the tenth floor of the ten-story building.

It feels so strange to be up here. So safely cocooned and warm, while there’s an entire business operation in full swing on the floors beneath me. Somehow, Saint managed to carve out a peaceful haven smack in the middle of chaos.

At around eight, I video-call Sunny and we do a relaxing stretch session together.

By ten, I’ve cooked, eaten, cleaned up, and showered.

Midnight rolls around and there’s still no sign of Saint.

It would be easy to think he’s avoiding me, but I know better. He’s not a regular nine-to-five man. Plus, he’s clearly living a double life. There might not be enough hours in a day tobehim. Hell, the fact he lives in the building he works in says it all.

On that thought, who takes care of him? His loft is spotless, everything perfectly organized and arranged. Who does his laundry and keeps his clothes so perfectly pressed and steamed? Who grocery shops and keep things stocked? Given the clandestine route to get here, who does he trust enough to bring here to do it all? Does he have a serious girlfriend?

At 12:47 a.m., I give up staring at the elevator in wait of him and shuffle off to bed.

~