“I’m glad we’re entertaining you.”

“Very funny. Get me the rest of the info and I’ll write her a script based on that. And I’m so glad you called, Bold, even if it was for your sick friend. Now maybe you can get around to calling your uncle.”

“Phones go both ways.”

“I swear,” she sighed out. “You two.”

“Bye, Dr. Luntz.”

“Bye, Bold. Take care of yourself.”

He disconnected the call and quickly began texting her the rest of Blayne’s info.

“What’s your weight?” he asked.

“I’ll die before I tell you that,” Blayne muttered.

Not in the mood to argue, Bo put his phone in his mouth—not hygienic but necessary—and lifted Blayne up. He raised her up and down a few times to get a good read on her weight, then placed her back down and finished texting Dr. Luntz that and the pharmacy information. Once done, he called into the pharmacy to give them a heads up and to make sure they could have the meds delivered right away. Everything handled, he sat on the floor beside the couch. Blayne was sleeping now, but she made small whimpering sounds and frowned deeply, which told him she was in pain. He touched the icepack and realized it was no longer cold. Hoping she had another one in her freezer, he picked up the pack and stood. That’s when he took a good long look at the pit she had the nerve to call a home.

“How does she live like this?” he asked the air, and that’s when he immediately decided she couldn’t live like this.

CHAPTER 11

Blayne slept hard. So hard, she only remembered someone waking her once to shove several big pills down her throat, followed by an attempt at drowning her. The next time she woke up, she felt much better and was starving.

Yawning, she sat up and stretched. Her migraine was gone, her face no longer felt ten times bigger than her entire body, and she could now see out of both eyes. It was still dark out, but she had no clue what time it was. She glanced at her watch, but quickly remembered it didn’t work. Okay, so Bo was right about that. She did need a new watch . . . a task she’d get around to eventually.

She stood and headed to the bathroom, her need to pee overriding her need to eat. She took care of that, washed her hands, and walked back into the living room. That’s when she stopped and gawked.

“What . . . wait . . . where’s . . . uh . . .”

“Are you well enough to be up?”

Blayne looked over her shoulder. Bo Novikov stood in her kitchen doorway. He was actually kind of stooping a bit because he was too tall for her doorways. To be honest, she’d forgotten he’d come over. Questions like why and how did he know where she lived in Brooklyn faded away as it hit her that she hadn’t been robbed by very neat thieves.

She pointed at her living room. “What did you do?”

“Cleaned up. Looks much better, don’t you think?”

Blayne walked farther into the living room. “Where’s all my stuff?”

“You mean all that trash?”

Blayne faced theinsolent beast in her apartment. “Trash? Did you call my stuff trash?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! It’s not trash. It’s my stuff!”

“Which was trash.”

Annoyed by his calm but self-righteous attitude, Blayne pointed an accusing finger. “You threw it out, didn’t you?”

“Well—”

“Because you think it was trash. But it wasn’t trash. It was my stuff.”

“Blayne—”

“Mine!” she bellowed. “Not yours. Mine, mine, mine!”

“Blayne—”

“Who do you think you are? Coming into my apartment? Taking my shit! Throwing my shit out!”

At this point, Blayne was good and frothy, but when Bo rolled his eyes at her and let out some kind of soul-weary, put-upon sigh, she’d had enough!

“Out!” she barked. “Get out of my house! Now!” She turned to make the short trip over to the front door so she could dramatically throw it open, but he caught hold of her sweatshirt and swung her around. For a brief moment, she thought he was about to pummel her, but instead of spinning her around to face him, he spun her around to face the wall behind the couch. The wall with the bookcases she’d originally tossed stuff up onto when she was unpacking and had been meaning to reorganize once she had a chance. Sadly, that “chance” had never made an appearance.

Not only had the three sets of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves been reorganized, but all the books and magazines Blayne had laying on the floor were now on the bookshelves. And not only were the items organized alphabetically, they were organized alphabetically by author within subgroups that were broken down by topic. And yeah, the topics were also in alphabetical order. He’d even found time to do a makeshift binding of her magazines by year and label them so she knew which magazine they were without having to pull them down and look.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that’s nice—eek!”

He swung her around again and this time she faced the kitchen. The spotless kitchen with all the dishes, pots, and pans put away, the counter and stovetop scrubbed clean, and the four bags of trash she’d been meaning to throw in the Dumpster downstairs for the past two weeks finally gone. And she was sure, if she wanted to, she could eat off that kitchen floor.

“Wow—”

Another swing and she was looking into her bedroom. All the clothes that had been on the floor were now in the hamper—I have a hamper?—and the pile of clean clothes she had in her laundry basket were gone, leading her to believe they’d been folded and put in her chest of drawers. A few had been hung up and put in her closet, which had also been organized, the clothes aligned by size. The shoes, sneakers, and boots she’d tossed into the bottom of her closet—and then spent an hour every morning trying to find a matching pair—were organized on the closet floor. First her work boots, then her sneakers, then her skates, and finally a very small row of dress shoes and heels.