Demons of Good and Evil by Kim Harrison

            The ceilings here were lower, more homey, and he took me through the proposed kitchen, where I oohed at the dumbwaiters and marveled at the view where the breakfast nook was going to be. The room he’d been napping in had a fireplace and would eventually be a casual office, and his eager pleasure was charming as he lit the gas logs before taking me to the upper patio. The construction crew had been focused on buttoning the flat up, and the new sliders leading outside still had their protective film.

            “You have to see the view,” Trent said as he eagerly pulled me into the wind.

            “Oh my God,” I whispered, my wave of vertigo vanishing as fast as it had come. It had finally stopped raining, and the damp scent of the city was heady. We were up so high, and yet there were small trees and a generous plot of grass. A fountain tinkled to drown out the sound of traffic. Raised redwood beds lined one railing—no soil yet but full of promise. A clearly new trio of tiered beds was set to catch the sun on the other side, and an empty lap pool waited to be filled. I could almost smell the hot dogs cooking.

            “Trent, this is fabulous,” I said as I pulled my jacket tighter against the damp wind.

            “I’m glad you like it. Next year, the girls can grow their own pumpkins. I don’t know why I didn’t set aside a plot for them this year out by the stables.”

            “You’ve been busy.” But I wondered if this was what he wanted, or if he was trying to outcompete Ellasbeth’s flat across the river in the Hollows. If he was, he’d gone above and beyond. It was more than nice up here, but even so, my unsettled feeling began to grow. I felt as if I wasn’t just standing nearly fifty stories up on a plot of grass but was perhaps at a crossroads.

            I knew part of this move was Trent making space for me, finding my needs and making adjustments to his. He was setting aside his beloved gardens and stables because I could not work from there. It was obvious with the raised beds and dwarf trees that he was trying to meet me halfway. The secluded, window-rich spelling lab downstairs was twice as big as it needed to be, and a walk-in book vault? They spoke to and lured me.

            Still . . . it wasn’t my home in the church with its secluded graveyard, surrounded by everything I loved and needed. And it made me feel selfish.

            “It’s beautiful, Trent . . .” I began, then hesitated at the sound of pixy wings.

            “Hey, Rach,” Jenks said, and Trent’s hand fell from mine. “Can I use your phone? I want to check on Getty.”

            “Sure.” I swung my bag around, head down as I pushed past my books to find it. “You want it inside?”

            “Yup,” he said, clearly struggling with the wind, and Trent reached for the sliders.

            “I should probably get an order in,” Trent said. “Jenks, you want something?”

            “Honey?” The pixy darted inside. “Hey, Bis! Trent’s buying. You want a quail?”

            “Oh, please don’t,” I said, and Trent chuckled as the wind cut out. “But he might appreciate a chicken sandwich. Uncooked if they’ll do it.”

            “Chicken sandwich, raw,” Trent said. “Honey for Jenks. And for you?”

            I shrugged as Trent shut the door. “Something starchy, or maybe some cheese.”

            “Flight of cheese and artisan bread.” Nodding sharply, Trent strode into the sporadically lit darkness. “Back in a second. Jenks, you want to use my phone? It gets better reception in the kitchen. Something about the skylights.”

            “Of course it does,” I whispered as I put my phone away. I felt alone as I listened to Trent’s and Jenks’s voices become indistinct, and my boots ground the plaster-spotted floor as I made my way to the orange-lit future study. The fire had already warmed the space, and I set my bag beside the dusty leather recliner. There was only the one chair, but a small table sat nearby with a TV remote and a copy of Orchid Digest. Trent was on the cover with his latest development, and my eyebrows rose. Clearly he’d been spending more time here than I thought. The delivery address on the front was for Carew Tower.

            “Food is on the way,” Trent said, and I turned, surprised to see a thick fleece draped over his arm. “Ah, we can eat on the balcony if you want, but I thought the fire . . .”

            “Would be perfect,” I finished, then helped him arrange the fleece before the table and chair. “This is nice,” I said as I took off my boots and settled in. “You bring all your ladies up here?”