TWO

FJF’s To-Do List: October 15

1. Dust sitting room furniture.

2. Vacuum spare bedroom.

3. Purchase decoy foodstuffs for both fridge & pantry in advance of Miss Cassie Greenberg’s visit.

4. Should Miss Greenberg not wish to let the spare room\, ask Reginald how to include photographs in the advertisement to avoid unnecessary future interactions with applicants.

5. Renew library books.

6. 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.

When he gave me a small, expectant smile, a dimple popped in his right cheek.

“I—” I said. Because I still had just enough of my wits about me to remember that when someone introduced themselves, social custom dictated you say something in return. “You’re . . . huh.”

By this point, I was screaming internally at myself to snap out of it. I wasn’t someone who usually gawked at people or went automatically into lust mode immediately after meeting someone attractive. Not like this, anyway. I still wasn’t certain I even wanted to move into this apartment—but I also didn’t want this guy to reject me right off the bat just because I was acting weird and inappropriate.

It didn’t matter that Frederick J. Fitzwilliam had the sort of broad, muscular build that suggested he led football teams to victory when he was younger and still worked out regularly now.

It didn’t matter that he wore a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, the charcoal-gray jacket and starched white shirt clinging to those broad shoulders like they were made specifically for his body, or that his matching gray slacks fit him just as well.

None of this mattered, because this was someone with a room I maybe hoped to rent. Nothing more.

I had to get a grip on myself.

I tried to focus on the more eccentric aspects of his outfit—the frilly blue cravat he wore at his neck; the shiny wing-tipped shoes on his feet—but it didn’t help. Even with those unusual accessories he was still the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.

As I stood there, yelling at myself to stop gaping at him while being helpless to do anything but, Frederick just stared at me with a puzzled expression. I wasn’t sure what there was to be puzzled about. He had to know how hot he was, right? He must have been used to getting this reaction from people. He probably had to fend horny people off with a stick every time he left his home.

“Miss Greenberg?”

Frederick cocked his head to the side, probably waiting for me to form a complete sentence. When I didn’t, he stepped out into the hallway—most likely to get a closer look at the weirdo who’d just shown up at his door.

But his eyes weren’t on me anymore. They were on the floor, riveted to the cheesy doormat at my feet.

He scowled at the stupid thing like it had personally wronged him.

“Reginald,” he muttered under his breath. He knelt down and grabbed the welcome mat in both hands. I absolutely did not stare at his perfect butt as he did it. “Thinks he’s so funny, does he?”

Before I could ask who Reginald was or what he was talking about, Frederick turned his attention back to me. I must have looked pretty out of it because his expression softened at once.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Greenberg?” His deep voice conveyed what sounded like genuine concern.

I managed, with difficulty, to tear my eyes away from his perfect face, and stared pointedly down at my shoes. I cringed at the sight of my paint-splattered, beat-up old Chucks. I’d been so flustered I’d forgotten all about the fact that I’d showed up covered in paint and wearing the worst clothes I owned.

“I’m fine,” I lied. I stood a little taller. “I’m just . . . yeah. I’m just a little tired.”

“Ah.” He nodded, understanding. “I see. Well, Miss Greenberg . . . are you still interested in touring the apartment tonight to determine whether it suits your needs? Or would you perhaps prefer to reschedule given your current fatigue and your . . .” He trailed off, his eyes roaming over me slowly, taking in every part of my outfit.

I flushed hot with embarrassment. Okay, yes—clearly I had underdressed for coming here. But he didn’t need to make a thing about it, did he?

In a way, though, I was grateful. He might be the most attractive man I had ever seen in my life, but people who were snobby about appearances were seriously one of my biggest pet peeves. His reaction to my clothes helped prod me from my ridiculous lusty fugue state and back to reality.

I shook my head. “No, it’s fine.” I still needed a place to live, after all. “Let’s do the tour. I’m feeling okay.”

He looked relieved at that—though I couldn’t understand why, given how unimpressed with me he seemed so far.

“Well, then.” He gave me a small smile. “Do come in, Miss Greenberg.”

I’d seen the pictures he’d sent, so I thought I’d been prepared for what waited for me inside. I saw immediately that the pictures hadn’t done the place justice.

I’d expected it to be fancy. And it was.

What I hadn’t expected was that it was also . . . strange.

The living room—like the pictures of the kitchen and the spare bedroom Frederick had sent me—seemed frozen in time, but not in a way I could put into words and not frozen in any specific period I could name. Most of the furniture and the fixtures on the walls looked expensive, but they were thrown together in such a multi-style, multi-era jumble it made my head ache.

Dozens of shiny brass wall sconces created the sort of dim and atmospheric lighting I’d only ever seen in old movies and haunted houses. And the room wasn’t just darkly lit. It was also just . . . dark. The walls were painted a dark chocolate brown that I vaguely remembered from art history classes had been fashionable in the Victorian era. A pair of tall, dark wooden bookshelves that must have weighed a thousand pounds each stood like silent sentinels on either end of the room. Atop each of them sat an ornate brass, malachite candelabra that would have seemed right at home in a sixteenth-century European cathedral. They clashed in style and in every other imaginable way with the two very modern-looking black leather sofas facing each other in the center of the room and the austere, glass-topped coffee table in the living room’s center. The latter had a stack of what looked like Regency romance novels piled high at one end, further adding to the incongruity of the scene.

Besides the pale green of the candelabras, the only other color to be found in the living room was in the large, garish, floral Oriental rug covering most of the floor; the bright red, glowing eyes of a deeply creepy stuffed wolf’s head hanging over the mantel; and the deep-red velvet drapes hanging on either side of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I shivered, and not just because the room was freezing.

In short, the living room was confirmation of something I’d known for years: people with money often had terrible taste.

“So. You like dark rooms, huh?” I asked. It was maybe the most ridiculously obvious thing I could possibly have said—but was also the least offensive thing I could think of. I stared at the carpet as I waited for him to reply, trying to decide if the flowers I stood on were supposed to be peonies.

A long pause. “I . . . prefer dimly lit places, yes.”

“I bet you get a lot of light in here during the day, though.” I pointed to the windows lining the room’s eastern wall. “You must get a fabulous view of the lake.”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You don’t know?”

“Given our proximity to the lake and the size of these windows, I can infer that one can see the lake quite well from here should one wish to do so.” He fidgeted with a large golden ring on his pinky finger; it had a blood-red stone as big as my thumbnail in its center. “I keep the curtains drawn, however, while the sun is up.”

Before I could ask why he’d waste a view like that by never looking at it, he added, “Should you decide to move in, you may open the curtains whenever you wish to see the lake.”

I was just about to tell him that that was exactly what I would do if I moved in when my phone vibrated from inside the front pocket of my jeans.

“Um,” I said awkwardly, fishing it out. “Hold on a second.”

Crap. It was Sam.

In the shock of realizing that Frederick was hot, I’d forgotten to let him know I wasn’t being murdered.

SAM:

Cassie? You okay?

I’m trying not to freak out.

Please text me right away so I don’t start worrying that you’ve been chopped up and put into freezer bags.

CASSIE:

I’m fine

Just got caught up in the apartment tour

Sorry

Everything’s fine

SAM:

Frederick’s not a murderer, then?

CASSIE:

If so he hasn’t tried killing me yet

But no I don’t think he’s a murderer

I think he might just be REALLY weird

I’ll text you when I leave

I sent Sam a pink heart emoji as a peace offering in case he was mad.

“Sorry about that,” I said awkwardly, stuffing my phone back into my jeans pocket. “My friend drove me over. He just wanted to check in and make sure everything was okay.”

Frederick smiled at that—a crooked, lopsided sort of smile that made me forget that he was too weird and snobby to find attractive.

“That is smart of your friend,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “You and I hadn’t been properly introduced yet when we agreed to meet. Now, Miss Greenberg—shall we begin the tour?”

But hearing from Sam reminded me that while I did want to get a good look at this place, there was something important I needed answered first.

“Actually, before we do that, can I ask you a question?”

At that, Frederick froze. He took a small step away from me, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his gray slacks.

It was another long moment before he answered me.

“Yes, Miss Greenberg.” He clenched his jaw, his posture suddenly rigid. He looked like he was gathering courage to face an unpleasant task. “You may ask whatever you like.”

I squared my shoulders. “Okay. So, this might be stupid of me to ask, since I’m about to argue against my own best interest here. But my curiosity is literally killing me. Why are you only asking for two hundred per month?”

He took a small step back, blinking at me in what looked like genuine confusion. Whatever he’d been expecting me to ask, it wasn’t that.

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“I know what rent in a place like this should be,” I continued. “You’re only asking for, like—a fraction of it.”

A pause. “I am?”

I stared at him. “Yes. Of course you are.” I gestured vaguely to our surroundings—to the brass wall sconces and the bookshelves, to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the intricate Oriental rug beneath our feet. “This place is amazing. And the location? Insane.”

“I am . . . aware of its attributes,” Frederick said, sounding dazed.

“Okay then,” I said. “So, what’s the deal? The price you’re asking will make everyone who sees the ad think there’s something wrong with your apartment.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” I said. “I almost didn’t come because of it.”

“Oh no,” he groaned. “What would have been a more appropriate price?”

I couldn’t believe this. How could someone wealthy enough to live here be this clueless about the value of what he had?

“I mean . . .” I trailed off, trying to decide whether he was messing with me. The earnest, slightly panicked look in his eyes told me he was not. Which made no sense at all. But on the off chance he really didn’t know that two hundred dollars a month was a ridiculous price for this room, I wasn’t about to negotiate against my best interest more than I already had by giving him an exact number.

“Definitely more than two hundred a month,” I hedged.

He stared at me for a moment and then closed his eyes. “I am going to killReginald.”

That name again. “I’m sorry, but who is Reginald?”

Frederick shook his head slightly. “Oh. I’m . . . never mind.” He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Reginald is just . . . someone I happen to loathe. He gave me some very poor advice. But there is no need for you to worry about that, Miss Greenberg. Or about him.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. “Oh.”

“Quite.” Frederick cleared his throat and said, “In either case, I suppose what’s done is done. If you agree to rent the spare room I see no need to punish you for my mistake or your honesty by raising the price. I am happy to leave the monthly rent at two hundred dollars if you move in.”

He shrugged. As though discovering he could be getting a lot more money for his room than he was asking for was no big deal.

I couldn’t imagine not caring about losing out on that much money.

Just how rich was this guy?

Perhaps more importantly: If he didn’t care about how much money he might get from renting the room, why did he even want a roommate in the first place?

I didn’t have the courage to ask any of this.

“Thanks,” I said instead. “Keeping the rent at two hundred would really help me out.”

“Good,” he said. “Now, since we have apparently reached the asking questionsphase of the tour, may I ask you a question, Miss Greenberg?”

My stomach lurched. Did my gratitude over the cheap rent tip him off that I’d exaggerated my job situation in my email? Did he somehow find out I was about to get evicted?

If that was the sort of conversation we were about to have . . .

Well. Might as well get it over with.

“Ask away,” I said, feeling nervous.

“While I sincerely hope that whoever moves into my home will feel that this is also their home, two rooms will remain strictly off-limits,” he said, with a serious expression. “Should you move in, I would need you to promise to faithfully stay out of those spaces for the duration of our cohabitation. Can you agree to this?”

“Which rooms?”

Frederick held up a single, long finger. “First, you may never enter my bedroom.”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “That makes sense.”

“Due to the nature of my . . . business, I am out of the apartment most nights and must sleep during the daytime.” He paused, taking in my reaction. “Generally speaking, I rest between the hours of five in the morning and five in the evening, although those precise times will likely fluctuate over the coming months. When I am sleeping, it is imperative that I be allowed to rest undisturbed.”

My mind snagged on the due to the nature of my business part of what he’d just said. My grasp of what CEOs and other rich business-types actually did for a living was mostly limited to what I’d seen on television—but even still I was pretty sure night shifts weren’t a regular thing for business bros.

He must be some sort of doctor, then. Doctors worked nights, right?

Either way, asking me to stay out of his room seemed fair.

“It’s your bedroom,” I said. “I get it.”

That seemed to please him. A smile spread across his face. “I’m glad you agree.”

“What’s the other room I can’t go into?”

“Ah. Right.” He pointed towards what looked like a closet at the end of the hallway. “That one.”

I frowned. “What’s in there?”

“The answer to that question is also off-limits.”

Okay—that freaked me out a little. Maybe Frederick was a murderer after all. “It’s not . . . dead people, is it?”

His eyes went wide. “Dead people?” He looked horrified, putting his hand to his chest in a way that reminded me of an old lady clutching her pearls. “God’s thumbs, Miss Greenberg! Why would you think I had dead people in my hall closet?”

He seemed to be taking the joke a bit too seriously. “Fine, no dead people. Can you at least tell me if whatever’s in there is dangerous?”

“Let’s just say I have a rather . . . embarrassing hobby.” He looked down at his feet, as though his shiny wing-tipped shoes were suddenly the most interesting things in the room. “I may one day divulge that closet’s contents with the person sharing my apartment. But if I do, it must be on my terms, at a time and in a manner I see fit.” He looked up at me again. “I will not disclose its contents today.”

“You collect lace doilies, don’t you?” I don’t know what possessed me to tease him like this. But the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “You have hundreds of them in that closet.”

The corner of his mouth twitched a little, like he was trying hard to fight a smile.

“No,” he said. “I do not collect lace doilies.”

He didn’t elaborate. This time I had the good sense to let the matter drop. I shrugged and said, “Either way, it’s fine. It’s your stuff, and your apartment. So, your rules.”

“Should you move in, I do hope you come to think of this as your home as well.” He stepped closer to me, dark brown eyes searching mine. His eyelashes were so long and lush, and his gaze was so penetrating, I could feel my knees going weak. He really was unfairly attractive. “Other than those two limitations you will have full, unrestricted use of this apartment.”

I swallowed, trying to regulate my breathing. “I . . . I think I can live with that.”

“Wonderful.” This time, he allowed his smile to stretch across his entire face. “Now with that out of the way—shall we tour the apartment?”

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