Over the last, very short while, Jeannette had necessarily considered being shot. Captured. Attacked. Having her life end in a most unpleasant way. What she hadn’t thought about was the idea that she might, in fact, die of embarrassment. But right then, it seemed like a real possibility.
Mr. Blue Collar.
The words had just popped out before she could stop them. And she could tell that Warren wanted an explanation. One she didn’t feel like providing. So she hurried up the hall toward the bathroom—which was where the point of entry to the apartment overhead was—and held on to the slightly vain hope that he would just let the slip go. And for a couple of minutes, he did. He joined her in the small space, his large body making it impossible to move anywhere without bumping into him.
Jeannette did her best to ignore the close contact, and she pointed toward the gaping hole in the ceiling. “See? All we have to do is climb up onto the sink cupboard and pull ourselves in.”
Warren tipped his head up, studying the damaged area. “That...plus hope that the floor holds out.” He pointed, too. “Look right there. There’re hairline cracks all along that edge. There’s no way to know how much weight it’ll hold.” He dropped his gaze back to her face. “There won’t be anything subtle about our entrance if the whole thing collapses.”
“It’s the only way for us to get in without being noticed,” she replied. “We have to trust that it will hold.”
He lifted his eyes once more, then stepped a little closer. His fingers came up and strummed the edge of the sink as he studied the hole.
“I’d feel a hell of a lot more secure if we could see what it looks like on the other side.” Warren tapped his fingers faster, then abruptly stilled them, his face contemplative. “What about if we try something else?”
For no discernible reason, Jeannette’s stomach fluttered. “Like what?”
“We’ll both climb up onto the sink, and I’ll lift you up,” he said. “That way, I can at least help push you past all those cracks in the ceiling.”
The flutter intensified as she thought about having his arms grip her tightly enough to allow the plan to work, and she made herself answer in a steady voice. “And then what? How do you get in?”
“After you do an assessment of the best place for me to come up, I’ll do it. And if we need to figure out a way to make things a little more secure, then we’ll do that, too.”
His very reasonable tone was hard to argue with. And he was right—it would be safer for both of them if one went in first and took stock of any potential issues. But as Jeannette started to nod her agreement, a new thought occurred to her. Her skirt.
She bit her lip. “I don’t suppose me giving you a boost is an alternative option?”
He took a tiny step back and eyed up her frame, head to toe, then toe to head. Jeannette straightened her shoulders, but she knew it was pretty useless to even pretend. There was exactly zero chance that she could lift Warren. She might not be a total lightweight, but his bulk dwarfed hers considerably, and the size difference was magnified in the tiny bathroom.
“Fine,” she grumbled after a second more of his dubious stare. “Lift me up, then.”
“Ladies first.” He gestured toward the sink with a slightly cheeky smile.
Jeannette rolled her eyes, then climbed onto the counter with as much dignity as she could manage. Trying not to show just how self-conscious she was feeling, she gave her skirt a hasty smooth-down and moved back to make room for Warren. And he was quick to join her. With far less effort than she felt she’d made, he swung a knee onto the Formica, then pulled himself up.
“You ready?” he asked.
He laced his fingers together and held them at knee level. She eyed his hands, told herself not to care that she was probably about to feel his calloused palms on her very bare legs, and lifted a foot into the Warren-made hoist. Everything after that was an awkward blur. Thankfully, it all happened quickly.
Jeannette placed her hands onto Warren’s shoulders. He straightened a little too quickly, and she wobbled, forcing her to grip him tighter. The motion pushed her waist right into his face, which in turned moved aside her shirt. And just like that, it was skin to skin. Or rather—scruff to skin. The dusting of his beard rubbed against her stomach in a thoroughly pleasant way. It made Jeannette gasp. And then she was sailing upward, obeying an order to lean in through the ceiling as far as she could. There was definitely a moment where Warren’s hands slid over her calves—which made her glad she’d shaved just that morning—and after that, she bent her body and dragged herself the rest of the way into the bathroom of the second-floor apartment. There, she lay still for several seconds, using the cool tiles underneath her to try and calm her breathing. But she no sooner had it under control than Warren’s voice carried up, echoing a little in the dark, empty space.
“Hey, Jeannie?” he said.
“Yes?” she replied.
“I was thinking about that ‘Mr. Blue Collar’ thing, and I have a theory.”
She suppressed a groan. She was thankful, at least, that he couldn’t possibly see her current blush.
“It’s not a thing,” she lied. “And you’re not supposed to be thinking or theorizing about it.”
He didn’t seem interested in cooperating. “You know that customer scale I was talking about before?”
“The totally made-up scale?”
“That’s the one.”
Jeannette made a face to herself. “What about it?”
“I think ‘Mr. Blue Collar’ has a place in there,” Warren told her. “And I think you and your coworkers create cute little nicknames for people. I’m just not sure if it’s a compliment.” He paused. “By the way... Can you see a safer way for me to come up than just some random flailing and a prayer that I won’t wind up with a broken neck?”
In response to the question, Jeannette pushed up to her elbow and scanned for a spot that seemed more stable than the others. But her perusal just made her wince. Even in the dark, it was easy to see that the whole floor was a complete disaster. The bathroom here was bigger. It included a tub instead of just a shower stall, and a set of shelves spanned one wall. But the toilet was missing, as was the cabinet that should’ve housed the sink. In fact, the area was so ripped apart that she was probably lucky that she hadn’t broken through the floor and fallen below again herself. What would Warren’s large frame do to it?
“Anything?” he called up.
She started to say no, but then stopped as she finally spied something that had potential.
“There’s an exposed beam here or something,” she said. “It looks strong.” It was her turn to pause and switch subjects again. “I don’t think being called ‘Mr. Blue Collar’ is an insult.”
“Good,” Warren replied. “About the beam, I mean. Can I reach it?”
“I think so.”
“Which direction?”
“If you’re still facing away from the mirror, it’s to your left.”
She heard his feet move over the countertop, and then his hands appeared on the edge of the hole.
“Am I close?” he asked.
“About three inches more to the left,” she told him. “Hang on. I’ll show you.”
She flattened herself on the ground and reached out to clasp his fingers, then guided them to the beam in question.
“All right,” he said. “Give me a second and slide out of the way.”
Jeannette did as suggested, and two seconds later, Warren’s plaid jacket came flying through the hole and landed beside her. A moment after that, his hands showed up again. Only this time, they were accompanied by an effort-filled grunt and followed in quick succession by an elbow, then his head. Finally, with another grunt—this time one that sounded like a poorly disguised curse—Warren himself came skidding forward into the apartment. As he hit the floor in front of Jeannette, several good-sized chunks of drywall broke off in his wake, and they tumbled down to the bathroom below, pinging against the ceramic sink with a dull, ominous ring. For far too long after that, his calves and feet hung over the expanded hole. Then he expelled a third grunt and dragged himself a safe distance away from the crumbling edge.
“How’s that for an entrance?” he asked, rolling to his back and breathing heavily.
Jeannette’s heart was leaping around so hard she almost couldn’t hear her own response. “It was good,” she replied. “And it’s also one that I hope I never have to see again.”
“That makes two of us,” Warren said. “You and Mr. Blue Collar.”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“I will. Once I have the answer to a simple question.”
“Which is?”
“I’ll ask you on the way to Rosie’s place.” He stood up, then held out his hand.
Jeannette took it, but the moment his fingers locked on hers, she was torn between being pleased at the contact and being even more embarrassed. Because of course she immediately remembered the way his palms had felt on her legs just minutes earlier.
Shake it off, she ordered silently. Like, now.
Letting his hand go—probably entirely more forcefully than necessary—she turned away from the gaping hole in the floor and gestured to the door. “This way.”
By necessity, Jeannette took the steps slowly. She was well familiar with the layout of the apartment because it was identical to her own. But it was far too dark to move quickly. They couldn’t risk turning on any lights to make it easier. And unlike the space below, which had been stripped of personal belongings, this unit still held many of its resident’s things. And the items seemed to have been pushed aside with no particular sense of order, so tripping and bumping hazards abounded. As was proven by the fact that Jeannette just barely managed not to smack her thigh into a decorative table that randomly sat outside the bathroom.
The extra minute it took also gave Warren time to ask the question he’d promised.
“The only thing I want to know...” he said as their feet lightly tapped against the carpet in the hallway and moved past two bedroom doors, “is who came up with the nickname? You, or someone else?”
“It was Rowan,” Jeannette replied, glad that it was an easy enough response.
“Hmm. That makes me wonder even more if it’s an insult. I’m not sure she likes me very much.”
“She doesn’t dislike you. Not really.”
“You say that in such a reassuring way.”
“It’s true.”
“Uh-huh.”
They reached the living room, and she led Warren through it to the entryway, sidestepping a small pile of shoes to get to the door. There, Jeannette paused. She expelled a tiny breath, then turned his way and explained how it had come about.
“Okay,” she said. “Do you remember one time, about six months ago, when you came in, and I was sitting at one of the tables because I burned my thumb?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You were trying to get that little package of burn cream open, and there was a line to the door, so I gave you a hand.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. What about it?”
“Well, up until that point, Rowan called you Mr. Right.”
“I am Mr. Wright,” Warren said, a frown apparent in his voice.
“No. Not Mr. Wright like that. Mr. Right as in the opposite of wrong,” she explained.
“Ah. I get it.”
“Yes. And that same day, Rowan asked you to take me to the hospital.”
“And you said that you didn’t need to go.”
“Because I didn’t,” Jeannette said. “It was a minor burn. But somehow Rowan turned it into this whole thing where it was your fault. The perfect chance to ask me out, but you blew it.”
“She wanted me to ask you out?”
Her face warmed, but she quickly pushed on. “Yes. Rowan is like that. She’s thinks she’s Cupid. And—don’t take this in a bad way—when you didn’t fall in with her plan, she started calling you Mr. Wrong instead.”
“Is there a good way to take that?” Warren asked dryly.
“Rowan was just being obnoxiously funny, same as always. But I did tell her to stop. And that’s when she switched you over to Mr. Blue Collar. And it stuck.”
“Hmm,” he said again. “Still not convinced it’s not some kind of insult.”
“It really isn’t, Warren. I promise.”
“So...”
“What?”
“Does that mean you like blue collar men?” The question could’ve been a joke—a tease—but it had an undeniably serious undertone.
And now Jeannette’s face wasn’t just warm; it was flaming hot. “There really isn’t a way for me to answer that question without digging myself into a hole, so I’m going to go ahead and not answer.”
“Probably for the best,” Warren agreed. “That story does make me curious about something else, though...”
“What’s that?” she asked as she turned to the door and reached for the dead bolt.
“What Rowan would’ve called me if I had asked you out that day.”
Jeannette pretended it was nothing more than a rhetorical pondering and said nothing in response. But that didn’t stop an entire army of stomach-dwelling butterflies from flickering to life right before she unlocked the door and carefully eased it open.-
Warren wanted to bite his own tongue. He didn’t know where the hell his brain had gone to. His mind had definitely decided to take a mini vacation. Obviously, the little trip to fantasyland included a nice jaunt to a place where flirting with Jeannie was perfectly fine. Where thinking about how he might like to take her out for dinner wasn’t a completely unrealistic thing. And where he wondered if she would’ve said yes to him, back when her coworker had thought he was Mr. Right. The whole, ill-timed thing was so distracting that he actually had to make an effort to focus on the task in front of them. Which was ridiculous, considering there was a possibility that lives—their lives—might be at stake.
Get your head where it should be, he told himself firmly. Then keep it there.
The self-directed suggestion was at least enough to prod him into sliding his body in front of Jeannie’s as he stepped out of the dark, damaged apartment, determined to shield her if necessary. Except as they moved into the new space, they remained in a shroud. For a second, that fact was as puzzling as it was disconcerting. What the hell was going on? Then—belatedly—Warren clued in. The door had been sealed off in black plastic, which was fastened to a makeshift wooden frame that rose almost to the ceiling. The setup only allowed in the smallest amount of light. One thing it didn’t block out, though, was the sound of someone moving around in the hallway. The shuffle of feet was distinct. So was the light cough that followed it.
Warren went still, and Jeannie stepped closer and tightened her fingers on the inside of his elbow. They stood together, tense and barely breathing as they waited for whoever was out there to disappear again. Instead, though, a gravelly, irritated voice called out.
“Is someone there?” it said, the speaker’s gender masked by the rough timbre.
The footsteps thumped closer, and Warren spun again to the door, pulling Jeannie with him. Swiftly and silently, he tugged her back into the apartment, then reached out to carefully flip the dead bolt back into place.
“Probably a neighbor,” Jeannie whispered.
“Likely,” Warren replied. “But having to explain what we’re doing wouldn’t help our cause.”
She bit her lip and nodded; her expression screwed up with obvious worry. Then her face cleared.
“Come on,” she said. “New plan.”
He followed her into the apartment once more. She led him back to the living room. This time, though, she kept going—past a leather couch and matching ottoman and straight to a set of sliding glass doors, which she quickly unlocked and pushed open, then stepped through. Warren stayed on her heels, drawing in a breath of the cool night air as his feet hit the deck. He cast a quick look around. The entire patio was enclosed in bamboo rolldown blinds. But it was a dead end.
“How does being out here equal a new plan?” he asked, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to clear some of the tension that was currently making them ache.
“You’re not going to like it,” Jeannie replied.
“Have I liked any of your ideas so far?”
“The ice cream truck wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He lifted a dubious eyebrow, but she was already on the move again, stepping quickly to the end of the patio. There, she stood on her tiptoes and reached up in an attempt to grab a hold of something above between the sheet of black plastic and the patio overhead. She didn’t seem to be able to get whatever it was, though, and after a second of trying, she gave up and looked at Warren.
“Little help?” she said to him. “I think it might be rusted into place a bit.”
“You think what might be rusted into place?”
His question was rendered unnecessary as soon as he made his way to the spot where she stood. A glance up gave him his answer. It was a metal fire escape ladder. A skinny, rickety—and yes, rusty-looking—one. It was screwed into the side of the third-floor deck.
“You’re right,” he told her, dropping his eyes back to her face. “I don’t like it.”
“Does that mean you’re going to make me climb up there and hang off the balcony railing to get to it?”
“No. But I think we should take a moment to acknowledge that part of the reason it’s hard to pull down is because it’s not meant to be reached from below.” He lifted both hands and grabbed the lowest rung as he said it. “I wouldn’t mind a little more insight into your plan, too. I have a feeling you were leaving something out before when you explained to me how we were getting in.”
A flash of guilt passed over Jeannie’s features. “I didn’t really leave something out. I just realized once we got up here that we probably shouldn’t waltz out into the main hall and take the elevator to the third floor. If Jimmy and the other guy are here, one of them will probably be waiting there.”
“Probably,” he agreed.
He gave the ladder a rough tug, and after a second of resistance, it cracked free, then slid down without much more than a hiss.
“So we go up...” he said. “Then what?”
“We go over.”
“Over?”
She jerked her thumb to her right. “Once we’re on the third-floor patio above us, we can climb to the porch next door. From there, we’ll climb to the next one, which is mine.”
Warren blinked. “I’m waiting for the punch line.”
Jeannie gave him a look. “No punch line. I’m serious.”
“Okay. Putting aside the fact that we’re likely to break our necks before any of that other stuff happens... I’m pretty sure two people scaling a building in the middle of the night could draw bit of unwanted attention.”
“We’ll be fine. All of the patios have these same blinds, and the apartment council requires that we close them at night.”
“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” he muttered, then cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. “So we’re going to climb a questionable ladder, jump across several balconies, then break into your apartment.”
“Yes,” she replied. “That about sums it up. Except for the breaking in part. It is my place, so I’m entitled to enter however I please.”
“I’m starting to think coming through the front door would’ve been a safer option.”
“We can still go back and try our luck with the neighbor.”
Warren ran a hand over his head. “Can’t you just find us another ice cream truck?”
“I would if I could.” Jeannie stepped to the ladder and climbed to the first rung. “But this is going to be easier than you think,” she told him. “Last month, the fifteen-year-old kid who lives above me with his mom got accidentally locked out, and his friend filmed him doing this exact thing to get inside.”
“So we’re following in the footsteps of a teenager?”
“Yes. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place.”
“Maybe because it’s an insane idea?”
She ignored him and took another rung. Then another. The ladder rattled with her movement, and Warren gritted his teeth. Despite that, though, she was right—it was far easier than he would’ve thought. The climb was a little wobbly, particularly under his weight, but he followed Jeannie up to the next balcony without any more trouble than that. The trip between the patios wasn’t complicated, either. The railings were no higher than Warren’s armpits, and they were only a foot apart, too. Which wasn’t to say he enjoyed any of it. In fact, there was a moment where he sincerely questioned his sanity. Namely, the second when he made the mistake of glancing down and caught a brief but terrible view of the cement looming below.
Aside from that, though, there were no interruptions or concerns. In under five minutes, they were standing on a fourth-floor patio that had been decorated with sun, moon and stars motifs. A light breeze managed to make its way through the rolldown blinds, and it brought a wind chime to life.
“This is me,” Jeannie said between breaths. “Normally, I’d take the time to show you my herb garden, but...”
Warren nodded. “Now isn’t normal.”
“Exactly.” She stepped past him to the sliding glass door, gave the handle an experienced-looking jiggle, then pulled it open and gestured for Warren to go in.
Relieved, he stepped into her apartment. But he should’ve known the whole thing was too easy to end well. And of course, it was. The moment he had both feet on the woven mat on the other side of the door, a fresh problem arose.
“Well, well,” greeted a not-too-friendly voice. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Warren couldn’t do much but curse himself for not being more careful. Well. That. And prepare to defend Jeannie with his life.