I’d have fired myself for that.

Instead, I went to an ATM, took out an exorbitant amount of cash, signed up for a cellphone, called the number on the sign, and agreed to meet the landlord at the building in an hour.

An hour. What else could I do in an hour?

I bought the laptop, went furniture shopping, rounded out my wardrobe, and purchased some new toiletries.

When I returned to the apartment building, my trunk packed with more possessions than it ever had been, the landlord was already there.

“Beauty Hart, hello!” he gushed. “So nice to meet you.”

He took my hand in his and shook it emphatically.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “I’m interested in renting an apartment in this building.”

“Done looking around?” he asked, sounding eager.

“More like never got started,” I answered, shrugging. “I liked the looks of this building, and I just moved into the city for a new job.”

“Perfect!” he exclaimed. “Well, let me show you around your new home!”

The apartment was just what I needed—and then some. It had a beautiful view, wood floors, and ample closet space. The kitchen had brand new modern appliances, and I eyed the stove with something cross between trepidation and excitement. I hadn’t cooked in years, and I’d have to buy all new dishes and pots and pans and utensils. It seemed almost overwhelming to consider…until I remembered Roland’s credit card.

“So, what do you think?” the landlord asked after I’d drifted around the space several more times, imagining what couch would go where, whether I’d splurge on a queen bed or stick with what I was more used to—a twin. Would a queen feel too big? I’d been so used to sleeping in my car that I thought a queen might be a waste of space on me. I’d probably just curl up to sleep and not move a muscle all night long.

“Do you need some more time to consider your options?” he asked. “I would completely understand if you did. Moving in to a new place is a big step, and one that can be overwhelming. Take a day to think about it, if you want. It’s all the same to me. You should be happy and feel completely at home in a place before you sign a lease.”

“No, I’m taking it,” I said, unable to smother a big grin. “I don’t understand why, but it somehow already feels like home.”

The most difficult part of the decision was deciding on a term for the lease agreement. Did I only want to be here month to month? Six months? A whole year? Two years? The wanderlust inside of me—or perhaps just the part of me that was used to being on the road, always moving around, never getting attached to one place—balked at the longer lease term. But finally, I was able to close my eyes and sign a one-year lease. I didn’t know how long it would take me to discover the truth of the Shepards. If it took less than a year, well, maybe I wouldn’t mind continuing to live here.

The rest of the day was spent setting up my utilities, securing other services like Internet and gas, and buying furniture and décor and having it rush delivered that evening to my new home. If Roland had said that money wasn’t an object, I supposed he could afford it.

I sat in a new armchair, fiddling with my laptop as I directed movers where to put my new furniture. On a whim, I opened up my Shepard Shipments email account Myra had given me access to early today and fired off a message at Roland.

I’m typing this from a new laptop that you bought, sitting on a new chair, which you also bought, inside a new apartment, which you have footed the bill for as well. You are probably going to have to dock my pay for a solid year before you recoup all these expenses from me. The new place feels a little too big after my cozy car, but I think it’s going to turn out just fine. Thank you.

I hesitated a few moments before sending it. The last thing I wanted to do was to give the impression that I was some entitled gold digger. The fact that Roland had given me his credit card to try and straighten out my life had been a kind gesture. I wanted to make sure he knew I was grateful.

My computer gave a tiny ping, and I studied the screen. I’d received a message back from Roland, and my stomach did a funny little flip flop in response. Why was he at work so late? I glanced at the clock. It was already approaching nine o’clock. The movers had done my bidding and left, and I was all alone in my new home.

I realized in a flash that the office kind of was Roland’s home. He lived in the same building, after all, so I guessed that he didn’t much mind attending to business matters whenever he pleased, even if they occurred after hours.

A quick stab of guilt hit me. Was I making him attend to office matters after hours? I opened the email.

Your pay won’t be docked. All employees receive reimbursement for moving expenses. I expect you in the office at 8 a.m. sharp tomorrow with hot coffee and a newspaper you haven’t stolen.

I expelled my breath—which I hadn’t realized I’d been holding—in an exasperated laugh. What an asshole. He didn’t even acknowledge my gratitude, and I seriously doubted that Shepard Shipments bought everyone their apartment and filled it up with furniture, new clothes, and electronics.

Why did he have to be so gruff all the time? The receptionist up on the floor where I worked had called him a beast. He seemed to have a reputation for acting beastly, and it didn’t help that his scar was so terrible to look upon.

How had he gotten such a scar? It looked fully healed, as far as I could tell in the darkened office, but still somewhat new. I would’ve thought that someone with as much money as the president of a major corporation had could pay to get that kind of thing at the very least reduced, if not completely removed.

And wasn’t there some kind of twisted adage somewhere that advised if you weren’t particularly handsome, you had better at least be kind? Roland was neither of those things, which probably explained why he secluded himself in a darkened office and never set foot near his employees—except for his assistants.

Well, soon to be assistant, only one. Me. The thought was terrifying but empowering. I was somehow entrusted to be the face Roland couldn’t show to the rest of his employees. And maybe, once he got to know me at little better—or once I figured his quirks out myself—he wouldn’t have to be such a jerk.

I sighed and closed my laptop before standing up. There were still groceries to purchase, dinner to be made, and an outfit to be picked out before work tomorrow. I’d have to ponder the mystery of Roland Shepard and his company some other time. I apparently had a life to get back to.

Chapter 6

“Oh, no. Not you. I know you. You get away from here.”

I was slowly approaching the newspaper vendor I’d stolen from yesterday, my hands palms up, arms outstretched, trying to prove that I wasn’t a threat, that I could be trusted.

“Sir, I told you yesterday that I would pay you back today,” I said. “Yesterday was a terrible mistake, and as I work in that building behind me now, I’m going to have to frequent your kiosk every day to buy the Times.”

“You’re just going to have to frequent somewhere else,” he said, shaking his head. “No way, no how, newspaper stealer. Your business isn’t wanted here.”

“Here,” I said, holding out a crisp twenty-dollar bill, a remnant from my grocery-buying binge from the previous night. “I’d like a copy of the Times, please, and to cover any pain and suffering I caused yesterday by taking the newspaper without paying. It was my first day, and I was really nervous.”

He narrowed his eyes at my bribe attempt before taking the bill and shoving a paper at me. “I heard you all have some kind of monster living up there, making your lives hell.”

Was he talking about Roland? “I don’t know about that,” I lied. “Like I said, I just started yesterday. I wouldn’t know about that kind of thing.”