Maid for Each Other(49)

“Told you,” I said. “Although…”

“Although what?” She instantly sounded intrigued. “Did you find something, Ab?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said, wondering if I should tell her. It technically wasn’t breaking confidentiality when I didn’t know anything, and Lauren was literally a vault. If you asked her to keep something quiet, she’d take it to the grave.

“Okay here’s the thing: this is nothing I’m worried about; this is something I’m nosy about. I totally trust Declan, but…I just really want to know what one of his businesses is and he says it’s confidential.”

“He is a murderer,” she said knowingly.

“Oh, my God, he is not!” I laughed, getting up to pace while I talked to her. I wasn’t good at sitting when I was talking on the phone.

I told her exactly what I knew, and then I told her about the email that I found.

“You should send me the screenshot,” she said. “I won’t do anything, but I’m better at investigating than you are. Let me sleuth for you.”

I looked down at my toes, which were still perfectly painted—thank you, Kat—and second-guessed telling her. He’d told me it was confidential; should I really be sharing his information?

“No,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “I shouldn’t have read it, much less taken a picture. I’m already done with my time playing fake girlfriend, so what he does with his life is none of my business.”

“But aren’t you curious?” she prodded. “Wouldn’t it be fun to know? To have a secret on the millionaire that you once spent a weekend with? Ten years from now, when you see him in the paper with his second wife and third yacht, won’t it be fun to feel like you know more than her?”

Why did I hate everything she’d just said? “I doubt he’ll ever have one wife, much less two. He works twenty-four-seven.”

“Just let me peek; I’m sure I won’t find anything, by the way. If Declan Powell says it’s confidential, I’m positive it can’t be found by some rando cool chick on the internet.”

“Okay, I’m sending it,” I said with a groan. “But please delete it the second you’re done looking.”

“It’ll be scrubbed by midnight,” she said. “I promise.”

She shifted gears then, telling me about her new martial arts obsession, and by the time we hung up, my stomach was grumbling. I hadn’t eaten since brunch, so regardless of what time it was, I needed food.

I went into the kitchen, now fully aware of the location of virtually everything in Dex’s cabinets, and it was a little mind-boggling, the way it suddenly felt like I was staying at a friend’s house instead of a stranger’s apartment.

As I pulled some angel hair pasta from the pantry, I wondered if he would actually text me when he landed. He could easily forget, or just not care to.

Of course, that begged the question: Was our last conversation the final one we’d have before this whole thing ended, or could it be the start of something different?

22

First Class

Declan

“Are you seriously FaceTiming me?” she asked as she answered my call.

Abi’s face popped up on my phone screen and she appeared very different from the young professor she’d looked like when I left her. Her hair was in a braid, she appeared to have some sort of powder—I had to assume flour—on her glasses, and she was wearing a neon-orange T-shirt that read YOUR MO GOES TO COLEGE. She asked, “Are you even allowed to use your phone on a plane?”

“First class has boarded but everyone else is still getting on so I’ve got a few more minutes.”

“And you were dying to see me? I’m trying to make noodles here, Powell.”

She set the phone down so I could now see that she was standing in front of my stove.

“Well, you seemed very interested in first class,” I said, watching her use a table fork to stir the pasta. “So I thought I’d give you a little tour, starting with the wet towel.”

“You have one?” She appeared to be half listening while she watched her noodles, which for some reason fascinated me. There was something about seeing her move about in her world—in my apartment—that I found mesmerizing.

I wanted to know more, to sit and watch what happened next.

“This is the hot towel,” I said, holding it up. “And you just put it on your face like this.”

I covered my face for a few seconds, then removed the towel.

“But, like, wouldn’t that just smear your makeup?” she asked.

“Do I look like I wear makeup?” I replied.

“Well, no, but then that’s a sexist benefit because no women could use the hot towel without ruining their face.”

“That’s sexist, assuming all women are wearing makeup when they travel.”

She scowled. “You’re not allowed to call me sexist when you’re a man.”

“Is that right?” I asked, and her nose crinkled when she smiled into the camera.

“Shut up and show me the rest,” she said, shaking her head.

I turned the phone around and showed her the business class seat and how it all worked. I was so used to traveling all the time that it was inconceivable to me that there were people unfamiliar with planes.