CHAPTER 8
IT WAS PAST eight o’clock when I got back to my apartment, and I felt like a corpse myself. Myrna had swanned off at five, citing a date.
“Hot men don’t wait, Tia,” she’d said.
I’d almost offered her a packet of batteries, but I managed to refrain just in time.
When I walked in the door, I almost turned around and walked straight out again. How did I get tired enough to pick the wrong apartment?
Then I realised my key had fitted the lock and took a better look at the stunning vista of cream and blue in front of me.
Holy s**t.
Rugs. I had rugs. My dining table sported a candelabra and six place settings, and artwork covered the walls. I recognised a few of my paltry efforts and one of Xav’s masterpieces above a funky stainless steel fireplace. Tall white speakers, a desk, h
