Clearly, he wasn’t even half the perv I was.
He was a gentleman.
A totally misplaced rush of disappointment went through me at the realization.
I cleared my throat to try and keep my thoughts on the matter at hand. “I didn’t think you’d be . . . I mean, you said you’re usually out at night, and . . .”
“I apologize, Miss Greenberg.” His voice sounded strained. He still wouldn’t look at me. “The shower was running for so long I assumed you had left the apartment without turning it off. So I came.” He paused, eyes going even wider when he realized what he’d just said. “To the bathroom, that is. To turn it off. The water, I mean.”
He dipped his head towards me in an awkward bow. At this point my face must have been so red it could be seen from space. “Please forgive me, Miss Greenberg. It will never happen again.”
And then he stepped around me, making sure not to brush up against any part of my body as he passed.
I heard the click of the bathroom door behind me, and then what sounded a lot like the contents of the medicine cabinet crashing to the tiled bathroom floor.
“Are you okay?” I called out, alarmed. Had he been so mortified by what just happened he fell down?
“Yes! Perfectly fine!” Frederick said, sounding strangled, before letting out what sounded like a string of low, muttered curses.
I was so embarrassed I hardly remembered walking into my bedroom. But the second I was inside my bedroom I slammed the door shut and then flung myself face-down onto my bed, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. My heart was hammering so hard it felt like my ribs might break. I tried to tell myself that it was simply because what just happened was one of the most awkward moments of my life. But deep down I knew that was only part of it.
I didn’t want to think about how incredible Frederick looked without a shirt. Nothing good could come from that line of thinking. With everything else going on in my life, having lurid fantasies about a handsome man who was miles out of my league and my roommate to boot was the last thing I needed to be doing with my time.
With difficulty, I forced myself to think about my plans to get my canvases out of Sam’s storage unit the next day.
My hair was still a disaster. That needed my attention, too.
I grabbed the fabric shears from the top of my desk. They were even duller than I remembered. But if I messed up my hair even more, at least it would stop me from thinking about what just happened with my roommate.
I started cutting, and . . . well, the end result was marginally better. If you squinted. At least the ends were even.
I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, cringing at how reliably good I was at messing up my life, even when nothing else went according to plan.
FIVE
Diary entry of Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated October 20
Dear Diary,
Oh, gods.
Is it possible for a person like me to die from shame?
I sit at my desk at 2 in the morning, desperately trying to remind myself that Miss Greenberg is a lady. A lady whose beauty far surpasses what I noticed when we first met. A lady with lovely curves, delightful freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, and a mouth that will now haunt my dreams—but a lady nonetheless.
It would appear I must also remind a certain traitorous part of my anatomy—one that has not responded thusly to a woman in over one hundred years—of this fact as well.
My thoughts go down a dangerous path and I do not know how to proceed. Before seeing Miss Greenberg nearly unclothed this evening I wanted nothing more from her than the opportunity to learn about the modern world by observing her from a respectable distance. A day ago, the idea that I might want anything else from her had never crossed my mind.
But now . . .
God’s thumbs, but I am the worst, filthiest sort of reprobate.
I do not know if Miss Greenberg has living parents. I must find out if she does—and if so, I must apologize to them for putting their daughter into such a compromising position. I must apologize to Miss Greenberg as well, of course. Preferably with a gift that adequately expresses my contrition. I will consult Reginald to see if he has ideas on what might be suitable. （He has, after all, long since been in the habit of needing to apologize to women.）
In the meantime, I shall go down to the lake and run out my frustrations. It’s been entirely too long since I have gone for a nighttime run. Hopefully, the rush of cool night air will clear my head. If that doesn’t do it, hopefully one of the library books Reginald has leant me will do the trick.
In entirely unrelated news, tonight I learned there exists a truly staggering array of cookware options. The twenty-first century may be what finally kills me after all these years—if living with Miss Greenberg doesn’t do it first.