Page 33 of Wicked Little Secret
I walked out of Theo’s office confident she hadn’t noticed the missing key and I’d have plenty of time to explore.
Nyssa was still at the school. I was sure of it. On Thursdays, she didn’t usually come back to her apartment until three or four in the afternoon.
Less than five minutes later, I was outside apartment 412,Nyssa’sapartment. The key slid right into the keyhole and untwisted the lock. The door swung open like I’d been granted special entry to a secret world most had no idea about.
The only time I’d let myself do this—explore Nyssa Oliver’s private sanctuary.
I gently shut the door behind me and surveyed the cozy six hundred square foot space. The walls were painted a soft lavender and the plank flooring beneath my feet was various shades of muted gray.
On my right was a row of coat hooks with some of Nyssa’s jackets and woolly scarves slung over the brass curvatures. On the left, hung a gold-gilded mirror that looked older than Nyssa was.
Vintage.
That seemed to be a running theme as I explored the apartment. Her kitchen was small, clean, and boxed in with a vase of assorted fresh flowers resting on the front counter.
A few more footsteps, and I was already in the living room space, flooded by natural light from the large bay window at the back wall.
“Meow.”
I glanced down to find a curious littleorange cat peering up at me. Her feline way of asking “who the hell are you?”
I almost grinned, crouching low to reach out a hand and let her smell me. I’d never been a cat person, but Nyssa Oliver’s cat was no regular cat—just like she was no regular student of mine. As inappropriate as it was that I was in her apartment, I knew with absolute certainty this was different.
This was an exception.
“Hello,” I said to the ginger. “And what’s your name?”
She gave a shrill hiss, then dashed off before the palm of my hand could even brush her spine.
I stood up straight again. “That’s alright. Cats aren’t as trusting as dogs. I get it. I wouldn’t be either if I were you.”
I moved deeper into the living room and admired how Nyssa had managed to keep her space tasteful but filled it with character and personality. A quilted leather sofa with curled armrests sat against the wall and a little coffee table stood a few feet in front of it, covered with various items like candles, a TV remote, more flowers.
The corner closest to the window served as Nyssa’s makeshift art studio—shelves bore past sculptures she’d created and a large easel was propped up in direct sunlight along with a stool and pottery wheel she used to mold clay.
I was fascinated by her art. I stepped closer like I had at the festival and admired the expert sculpting of each piece.
My head filled with imaginings of Nyssa perched on her stool, wearing nothing but a shirt of mine, her hands steeped in clay, as morning light haloed her. She’d look up and smile at me. I’d approach with two mugs of coffee and deliver hers with a kiss…
The image faded before my eyes and left an ache of longing in its wake.
Not entirely unfamiliar—I had once bought my home with the same type of vivid hopes. I’d look at the backyard and pictureherpushing our child on a swing or relaxing on a lounge chair with a good book.
None of those things ever came close to coming true.
I moved onto Nyssa’s bedroom, where a bed with wrought-iron bars was pushed against the wall and covered in a variety of different sized and shaped throw pillows. Her bedding was plain and off-white, but the rest of the room popped with color, from the artwork she’d hung on the walls to the melted candles and flowers spread throughout.
I smiled at the bookcase near the window that was crammed with well-loved books, spines cracked and worn. A few I owned in my collection, likeThe Alchemist.
Her cat whined from the other side of the room as though irritated I was still here.
“I’ll be gone soon, alright?” I asked, halfway amused by the feline’s impatience.
I’m ashamed to admit I opened drawers. I checked cabinets. I uncapped her shampoo and conditioner and inhaled the scents she used in her hair.
What was supposed to be a quick exploration of her place to gather intel on her relationship turned into a lengthy, overindulgent visit where I let myself become even more obsessed.
Leave now.