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middle of his room now, so I check the windows.
    “All good?” he asks a few seconds later.
    I’m grateful he hasn’t mentioned the journal. If he’s as tactful and understanding as he’s proven to be, I could see him letting it go—at least for now.
    I nod, wasting no time leaving his room and trying not to gawk at the perfectly tucked corners of his made bed. There’s nothing personal about this space. It could pass for a bed-and-breakfast room. And that tells me he has no plans to make himself at home, at least not for an extended period of time.
    We’re in the hall when I watch him return to his study, grab a stack of papers from his middle desk drawer, and tuck them under his arm.
    Divorce papers, perhaps?
    “I’m sorry, Niall,” I say again.
    He places his hand on my left shoulder, his pale-blue gaze softening. “Don’t ever apologize. This is your home. You deserve to feel safe here. Just know that I would never do anything that would jeopardize that.”
    “No, I mean . . .” My words fade. I’ve never been good at just letting things go. They tend to eat away at me and become unhealthy obsessions until they’re addressed properly. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
    He offers a gracious wince, a silent acceptance of a silent apology. His hand leaves me, a cool spot taking its place, and he makes his way to the stairs.
    I stay on the second level, checking the windows in the remaining spare rooms—two more bedrooms outfitted for guests who will never use them.
    All clear.
    I go up the stairs. I pass his study, where the door remains wide open and the colorful journal rests splayed on the floor.
    Every part of me wants to pick up where I left off, wants to stick my nose deep in his marital business despite the fact that it has no business being there. I was three paragraphs into the emotional dissolution of their marriage, his wife revealing Niall’s human and imperfect side, and now I’m dying for more.
    But I can’t.
    It wouldn’t be right.
    And if I were to get caught again? I can’t imagine he’d be so gracious the second time around. He’d have every right to put me in my place, pack up, and leave.
    I make my way downstairs and vow to spend the rest of the day distracting myself from the pages all but calling my name from upstairs.

CHAPTER 8
    “The destination is on your right,” the GPS plays through my car speakers.
    Both of my hands grip the steering wheel, and I’m certain they haven’t moved an inch since I backed out of my driveway fifteen minutes ago. The number of times I’ve left my house in the past six months I could probably count on two hands, and even that number might be generous. But the way I see it, I don’t have a choice in this matter.
    I pull into a circle drive outside a ten-story Art Deco giant just south of the square late Monday afternoon, my heart in my teeth and the prick of sweat threatening the nape of my neck. It’s not far from my old office on the square. I’ve passed this place a thousand times before, never giving it a second thought. In fact, I’d heard it had recently gone through renovations, but I had no idea it would be turned into an apartment complex.
    I locate a guest parking spot, pull in, and kill the engine before climbing out and preparing my umbrella for the short walk to the front door.
    A small sign to the right of the entrance reads T HE H ARCOURT and then 138 H AYWORTH S TREET . An inset plaque reads B UILT IN 1921. A white sign above the door that reads N OW L EASING is a modern if not jarring juxtaposition that almost ruins the otherworldly effect.
    There’s no doorman. No other residents in the entry. A small camera is mounted on the ceiling in one corner, but there’s no blinking red light. For all I know, it’s for show—that or it hasn’t been connected yet. The remodeling job is so new on this place that it still has that distinct new-construction smell while simultaneously making me feel like I time traveled. Terrazzo