Chapter four

PHOEBE

The next day,

Jeremy was in Chicago and Peter was all moved in, into Jeremy’s apartment. Jeremy had succeeded in putting me under the care of the angel of death. I’d watched the movers carry a giant flat-screen TV and boxes of varying sizes into the house next door, and Peter’s McLaren Artura was now a daily sight.

Since stewing over my situation wouldn’t do me much good, I decided to make lemonade out of my lemons.

The gallery closed on Wednesdays during the summer and I didn’t have any Shifts at my workplace and the Secretariat was closed because of a meeting, I didn’t have any glams scheduled, so I spent the afternoon baking my signature Cinnamon rolls and Chocolate Spongecake.

I’d just finished packaging them in a cute little basket when I heard the unmistakable roar of Peter’s car pulling in the driveway, followed by a door slam.

Shit.

He’s probably in a bad mood.

Okay, I was ready. I was.

I wiped my sweaty palms against the sides of my thighs. I shouldn’t be nervous about bringing the man cookies, for Pete’s sake. Peter had sat at our Christmas and new year table every year for the past eight years, and for all his money and good looks, he was human. An intimidating one, and a cold one but a human nonetheless.

Plus, he was supposed to look after me, he’s my guardian and he couldn’t do that if he bit my head off, could he? I mean Jeremy would kill him if he killed and buried my body.

With that reassurance in mind, I grabbed the basket, my keys, and my phone and made my way to his house. Thank God Steph was at her Doctor horsemanship. If I had to hear her talk about how hot Peter was one more time, I’d scream.

Part of me thought she did it to annoy me, but another part worried she was actually interested in him. My best friend hooking up with my brother’s best friend would open up a can of worms I had no interest in dealing with. Eww, I can’t think of that.

I rang the doorbell, trying to still my rampaging heart while I waited for Jeremy to answer. I wanted to chuck the basket on the front step and run home, but that was the coward’s way out, and I was no coward. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes probably but right now I want to wear my big boy’s pants or big girl’s in this scenario anyway.

A minute passed.

I rang the doorbell again.

Finally, I heard the faint sound of footsteps, which grew louder until the door swung open and I found myself face-to-face with the angel of death. He’d taken off his jacket, but otherwise, he still wore his work outfit— a charcoal gray, two-piece suit from Brunello Cucinelli crafted from ultra fine Merino wool and silk blend. A white Turnbull button down shirt. A Loro Piana navy blue cashmere crewneck sweater over his shirt. His trousers tailored so perfectly and with his John lobb leather shoes, he looked so perfectly put together and I looked like I had just stepped out of a baking sale.

His eyes roved over my hair (tossed up into a bun), my face (hot as sun-scorched sand for no discernible reason), and my clothes (my favorite tank and shorts set) before settling on the basket. His expression remained unreadable the entire time.

“There are for you.” I shoved the basket toward him. “It’s cinnamon rolls and a Spongecake,” I added unnecessarily, because duh, he had eyes and could see for himself that they were Pastries. “It’s a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift. A peace offering.” I added

More like a Don’t kill me while you’re living here and don’t make me a security hazard.

“A welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift,” he repeated.

“Yep. Since you’re…new. To the neighborhood.” I sounded like an idiot. “I know you don’t want to be here any more than I want you here—” Crap, that came out wrong.

“But since we are neighbors, we should call a truce.”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware a truce was necessary. We’re not in a war.”

“No, but—” I blew out a frustrated breath. He had to make this difficult. “I’m trying to be nice, okay? We’re stuck with each other for the next year, so I want to make our lives easier. Just take the damn pastries. You can eat them, throw them out, feed them to your pet snake Nagini, whatever.”

His mouth twitched. “Did you just compare me to Voldemort?”

“What? No!” Maybe. Definitely. Or worse.

“I used the snake as an example. You don’t seem like the type who’d have a furry pet.”

“You’re right on that account. But I don’t have a snake, either.” He took the basket off my hands. “Thank you.”

I blinked. Blinked again. Did Peter Ambrose thank me? I’d expected him to take the Pastries and shut the door in my face. He’d never thanked me for anything in my life.

Except maybe that one time I passed him the mashed potatoes at dinner, but I’d been drunk, so my recollection was hazy.

I was still frozen in shock when he added, “Do you want to come in?”

This was a dream. It had to be. Because the chances of Peter inviting me inside his house in real life were lower than me solving a quadratic equation in my head.

I pinched myself. Ow.

Okay, not a dream. Just an incredibly surreal encounter.

I wondered if aliens had abducted the real Peter on his way home and replaced him with a nicer, more civil imposter.

“Sure,” I managed, because hell, I was curious. I’d never been inside Peter’s home before, and I was curious to see what he’d done with Jeremy’s place.

He’d moved in a day ago, so I expected to see stray boxes lying about, but everything was so polished and put together it looked like he’d been living here for years. A sleek gray couch and eighty-inch flat-screen TV dominated the living room, accented with a low, white lacquered coffee table, industrial-chic lamps, and Jeremy’s abstract Mosiac. I glimpsed an espresso machine in the kitchen and a glass-topped table with white-cushioned chairs in the dining room, but otherwise, there wasn’t much furniture to speak of. It was a drastic difference from Jeremy’s messy but cozy collection of random books, sports equipment, and items he’d collected from his travels.

“You’re a minimalist, huh?” I examined a strange metal sculpture that looked like an exploding brain but probably cost more than my monthly rent.

“I don’t see a point in collecting items I don’t use and don’t enjoy.” Peter placed the pastry basket on the coffee table and walked to the bar cart in the corner. “Drink?” He asked

“No, thanks.” I sat on the couch unsure of what to say.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat opposite me, but it wasn’t far enough. I caught a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive-smelling, with a hint of spice and leather. It was so delicious I wanted to bury my face in his neck, but I didn’t think he’d take too kindly to that.

“Relax,” he said dryly. “I don’t bite.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“Your knuckles are white.”

I glanced down and realized I was clutching the edges of the couch so tightly my knuckles were, indeed, white.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” I winced. Talk about a cliché line.

“No photos though.” In fact, I didn’t see any personal effects—nothing that showed I was in an actual home and not a model showroom.

“Why would I need photos?”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Probably not. Peter didn’t joke, except for that one blip in his car a few days ago.

“For the memories,” I said, like I was explaining a simple concept to a toddler. “To remember people and events?”

“I don’t need photos for that. The memories are here.” Peter tapped the side of his forehead.

“Everyone’s memories fade. Photos don’t.” At least, not digital ones.

“Not mine.” He set his empty glass on the coffee table, his eyes dark. “I have a superior memory.”

My snort slipped out before I could stop it. “Someone has a high opinion of himself.”

That earned me a shadow of a smirk. “I’m not bragging. I have hyperthymesia, or HSAM. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. Look it up.”

I paused. That, I hadn’t expected. “You have a photographic memory?”

“No, they’re different. People with photographic memory recall details from a scene they’ve observed for a short time. People with HSAM remember almost everything about their life. Every conversation, every detail, every emotion.” Peter’s ocean blue eyes morphed into Dark blue skies, dark and haunted. “Whether or not they want to.”

“Jeremy never mentioned this.” Not once, not a hint, and they’d been friends for close to a decade.

“Jeremy doesn’t tell you everything.”

I’d never heard of hyperthymesia. It sounded fantastical, like something out of a science fiction movie, but I heard the truth in Alex’s voice. What would it be like to remember everything?

My heart rate picked up.

It would be wonderful. And terrible. Because while there were memories I wanted to keep close to my heart, as vivid as if they were happening right before my eyes, there were others I’d rather let fade into oblivion. I couldn’t imagine not having the safety net of knowing horrible events would eventually recede until they were only faint whispers from the past. Then again, my memories were so twisted I remembered nothing before the age of Ten, when the most horrible events of my life had occurred.

“What’s it like?” I whispered.

How ironic the two of us were sitting here: me, the girl who remembered almost nothing, and Peter, the man who remembered everything.

Peter leaned toward me, and it was all I could do not to back away. He was too close, too overwhelming, too much.

“It’s like watching a movie of your life play out before your eyes,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it’s a drama. Sometimes it’s horror.”

The air pulsed with tension. I was sweating so hard my top stuck to my skin. “No comedy or romance?” I tried to joke, but the question came out so breathless it sounded like a come on.

Peter’s eyes flared. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honked. A bead of sweat trickled between my breasts, and I saw his gaze dip to it briefly before a humorless smile touched his lips. “Go home Phoebe. Stay out of trouble.”

It took me a minute to gather my wits and peel myself off the couch. Once I did, I all but fled, my heart pounding and knees shaking. Every encounter with Peter, no matter how small, left me on edge.

I was nervous, yes, and a bit terrified.

But I’d also never felt more alive.

When I got home, I got a text from him

Tomorrow morning come to my apartment I have something for you.