Page 14 of Cross Ice

Is that what I wanted? To keep this exactly the same as it had been? Not really, but I wanted Evan to feel at ease.

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again.

I held my breath.

Evan

Or you could come to my apartment.

Satisfaction washed over me like the warm shower spray had earlier.

Another message came through with an address in Milpitas, a small city bordering San Jose.

Evan

Around 6?

Nico

Perfect. See you then.

I saved the address in his contact information and sat there grinning at my phone like an idiot. Evan had invited me to his apartment. That meant something, right? That he trusted me enough to let me into his space?

Also—and I was relieved about this, even though it made me feel guilty—he’d suggested his place, not mine. One more problem deferred.

I started the engine and headed home, already counting down the hours until six o’clock.

By five, I was showered and standing in my kitchen, eyeing my sparse wine rack.

Bring wine? Nah. That made it look like a date, and I still didn’t know what Evan wanted this to be. Better to keep it casual. Feel things out.

I grabbed my keys and wallet and checked my hair in the bathroom mirror one more time. Good enough.

My phone buzzed with André’s name. I ignored it. He’d been giving me shit all day about my “mystery guy,” and I wasn’t in the mood for more interrogation.

Twenty-five minutes to Evan’s place. I should probably leave now if I wanted to be on time.

Or I could show up five minutes early because I actually wanted to see him.

Yeah. That.

Evan’s building sat just off a busy street, a modern complex with clean lines. The parking garage entrance was tucked away, almost hidden from view. I pulled in and found a visitor spot on the first floor, then walked to the elevator.

I entered 205 into the keypad. “Come on up,” Evan’s voice said through the speaker, and the elevator unlocked.

The next floor up, I found his door and knocked twice. The door swung open, and there was Evan. A soft gray sweater brought out the silver flecks in his blue eyes. His styled hair was slightly damp, like he’d showered recently, and he was smiling a small, genuine smile that made my stomach flip.

“Hey.” I probably sounded like an idiot, but I couldn’t help it. He looked good. Relaxed in a way he hadn’t been at the club, comfortable in his own space.

“Come in.” He stepped back, and I walked past him into the apartment.

The small entry opened directly into the kitchen, which had sleek countertops and an island with two bar stools. To the left was a small dining table with four chairs, and beyond that, the living room with a couch, a coffee table, bookshelves, and a TV mounted on the wall. Large windows looked out onto a balcony, the blinds open to let in the light from the streetlamps.

The first thing I noticed was how clean everything was. Organized. Everything had a place. Books lined up neatly on the shelves. Throw pillows arranged just so on the couch. A single plant on the coffee table that actually looked healthy.

The second thing I noticed was what wasn’t there.

No photos. Not one. Most people’s apartments had at least something, with a framed snapshot on a shelf, a picture on the fridge, some evidence of a life lived with other people. Evan’s walls held abstract art. His shelves held books, but nothing personal. Nothing that would tell a visitor anything about where he’d come from or who he loved.