He’d thought about that waiting-room conversation after they’d parted? Somehow she’d imagined that he would dismiss the encounter as just another work task dutifully completed. That his memory of it would be erased by the wholesale ignominy of what happened afterward.
But apparently her description of her all-time favorite book had intrigued him a whole heck of a lot, which was kind of nice to hear.
“Um…yes.” Pleased, she smiled down at her sweaters. “Yes, the Dark Cheesemonger Tales were recently adapted into a high-budget prestige television series, at long last. Although they changed a lot of storylines from the books, which I don’t necessarily love.”
When he didn’t say more, she kept packing. Okay, two pairs of leggings—
Unexpectedly, he spoke up again. “We should watch the new season together.”
“Uh…” Her fingers hovered uncertainly over a pair of handknitted socks. “You don’t really want to do that. Whywouldyou?”
He had much more important things to fill his time. Laws. Justice. Weird, grandiose frescoes featuring his seminude family.
“I mean, the books are definitely better than the show,” Gwen added. “Also much more accurate as far as how affinage works. And sometimes the show’s dialogue isn’t the greatest. During one of the sorority’s orgies, this girl told her partner to—and Iquote—‘flip me like a fresh cheddar whose moisture needs to be distributed evenly.’ ”
Gwen paused. “To be fair, though, that actuallywasa good representation of affinage. And apparently her new position helped matters, given”—how quickly she came while getting railed face down on an improbably giant wheel of Brie de Meaux—“the, uh, available evidence, so perhaps I’m being overly judgmental.”
“I do want to watch the show with you.” He sounded sincere. “Very much.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” The refrigerator door closed with a muffledthud, and her couch emitted the series of squeaks that meant someone had dared to perch upon its aged cushions. “Would you rather I didn’t?”
If she wasn’t mistaken, he sounded the tiniest bit…hurt.
“Of course I’d love your company.” Her smile returned. Widened. “And if you’re into that kind of thing, I can introduce you to my favorite social media influencer too. He’s really into the show’s Gothic Fromagerie aesthetic. When he reacts to the episodes, he wears knit turtlenecks beneath his leather apron and has one of those ironic mustaches—”
A peremptory knock rattled the thin entry door to the apartment, and she jumped.
Oh, gods. It was far too soon for Lorrie’s return. Had the government arrived to take Gwen’s extremely false statement? Or—worse—had some of the conspirators somehow figured out what was happening and decided to eliminate everyone who’d interfered with their plans?
Dread knotting her stomach, she emerged from behind the screen and headed for the entry.
“It’s okay, Gwen.” Before she could reach the door, Hugh’s warm hands on her shoulders gently but firmly set her behind him. “Other than Lorrie, were you expecting any visitors?”
She shook her head, her rapid pulse echoing in her ears. “My next-door neighbor, Maneet, stayed outside the Zone with her family for the holidays, and I don’t know who else—”
“Gwen!” The door rocked under another authoritativethump. “It’s Farhanah!”
Hugh looked back at her, brows raised in question.
“Okay. We’re good.” The uneasy roil of her belly eased, and she set down her bag on the living room rug. “That’s Haziq’s aunt, one of my clients. I don’t know why she’s here, but I should answer the door. She’ll worry otherwise.”
His smoked-honey gaze searched her face. “Why don’t you rest for a moment? I can greet her.”
Normally, she’d insist on doing it herself, but her hands were still shaking. So were her knees. Without further ado, she waved him forward and dropped down onto the couch, then promptly flinched at its familiar chorus of squeaks.
After flipping the dead bolt and sliding the security chain free, he braced his feet and cracked the door just wide enough to see the woman on the other side.
“Who are you?” Haziq’s aunt sounded suspicious. “This is Gwen’s apartment.”
“Yes, I know.” Polite but unapologetic, he continued blocking the door. “My name is Hugh Blacke. May I help you?”
“Hugh Blacke? That sounds so…wait.” The older woman harrumphed. “Are you that SERC councilor with a stick up his ass?”
“So I’ve been told,” he said blandly. “Recently, even.”
Her sniff contained an entire thriving universe of disdain. “Useless, the lot of you.”
