Renew library books.
Write mother.
Frederick’s apartment was in a part of Lincoln Park I rarely visited. It was just a few blocks west of the lake, at one end of a row of fancy brownstones that, if I had to guess, would probably sell for several million dollars each.
I refused to think about that. It was intimidating enough just breathing the same air as the people who lived here. No need to make things worse by dwelling on how I’d never be able to afford living here without winning the lottery or turning to a life of organized crime.
“I’ll find parking,” Sam said as I exited his car. I looked back over my shoulder at him; he had his worried face on again. “Text me once you get in, okay?”
“Okay,” I promised, shivering a little. We’d both calmed down a bit once we realized Frederick J. Fitzwilliam might just be a Craigslist alias. But this whole situation was still weird.
I pulled my scarf around my neck a little tighter. October in Chicago was always colder than strictly necessary. The wind really kicked in this close to the lake, too. It cut through my thin T-shirt like scissors through paper.
I probably should have worn my winter coat, even if it would have ended up splattered in paint from tonight’s library event.
Tonight’s ridiculously fun library event, to be precise, which Marcie and I had planned entirely ourselves. If the sheer number of crying children who had to be carried out of the library after it ended was anything to go by, “Paint Your Favorite Disney Princess Night” had been a smashing success. I couldn’t help grinning when I thought about it—even though I was underdressed for the weather and shivering, and even though I knew that between my library-issued Sesame Street T-shirt, my jeans that were distressed due to age rather than fashion, and my orange Chucks with a hole in one of the toes, I probably looked like I’d gotten dressed inside a dark art-supply closet.
I wished every night at the library was art night, though I knew why that wasn’t possible. Art night invariably ended with the children’s section in total chaos, with splatters of paint on every surface and various mystery substances ground into the carpet. The janitors—and Marcie, and me—would have to scrub the place down for days.
Somehow, though, none of that mattered. It was impossible to be in a bad mood when I’d just held a paintbrush in my hands for two hours, helped a grinning little boy paint an Ariel the Mermaid with bright red hair, and got paid to do it. Even though I was now off to meet a potential new roommate who may or may not be a serial killer.
I was glad Sam would be waiting out here just in case.
I glanced at my phone to confirm the address and buzzer code Frederick had emailed me. I hurried to the building and quickly punched in the code to get inside, then trudged up the three flights of stairs to the top floor. I rubbed my chilled hands together, relishing the relative warmth of the heated stairwell after spending less than two minutes outside in what passed for autumn in Chicago.
When I got to the top floor—and Frederick’s apartment—a bright pink Welcome! mat in front of the door greeted me. It featured a golden retriever puppy and a kitten snuggling together in a field of tall grass and was maybe the tackiest thing I’d ever seen outside of a Hobby Lobby.
It was so out of place in this fancy, multizillion-dollar building that I half wondered if the cold weather had done something to my brain and I’d just imagined it.
Then the door to the apartment opened before I even had a chance to knock—and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about the cheesy Welcome! mat anymore.
“You must be Miss Cassie Greenberg.” The man’s voice was deep and sonorous. I could feel it, somehow, in the pit of my stomach. “I am Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam.”
It occurred to me, as I stood blinking stupidly up at the person who might be my new roommate, that I hadn’t really considered what the person behind the Roommate Wanted ad looked like. It hadn’t mattered. I needed a cheap place to stay, and Frederick’s apartment was cheap—even if the circumstances surrounding all of it felt a bit odd.
I’d spent a good part of the day wondering whether emailing him had been a good idea, or if he might be a psychopath. But what he looked like? That hadn’t really crossed my mind.
But now that I was here, standing less than two feet away from the most gorgeous man I had ever seen . . .
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam’s appearance was all I could think about.
He looked like he was maybe in his mid-thirties, though he had the sort of long, pale, slightly angular face where it was hard to tell. And his voice wasn’t the only thing with high production values. No, he also had this ridiculously thick, dark hair that fell rakishly across his forehead like he’d sprung fully formed out of a period drama where people with English accents kissed in the rain. Or like he was the hero from the last historical romance novel I’d read.