Paragon

⊰❉⊱ 18 ⊰❉⊱

"Ms Fletcher, I have a Quinn Adams for you." The front desk informed politely–yet unsure.

Of course the mortal was unsure I never invited a single soul here–and how the hell did she know where I lived?!

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Send her up."

I set the phone down carefully and diverted my anger through breathing. I headed for the bedroom. Quickly pulling out the first dark shirt I saw from the top draw and a non intimidating pair of black jeans. They fit me like a glove and were the only informal thing I owned–apart from that criminal gym wear...

I heard the elevator ding from here and pulled the door open as the Lawyer herself strolled in entirely unconcerned.

She walked straight past me before I could even begin to question her.

"I keep thinking over it and don't see the point in waiting." She remarked casually, looking around the living room.

"Oh, make yourself at home. Please." I drawled, crossing my arms over my chest and feeling the wet strands of hair soaking my shirt.

She glanced at me with a growing look of amusement before eyeing my bare feet and wet hair.

"Okay I should have called–"

"How do you know where I live?" I demanded.

She leant back against the L sofa and pocketed her hands.

"The next time you think I'm too drunk to snap a number plate you should reconsider." She smirked again. "I have my own guy that can track leads."

I froze. Realising she had in fact run Pearson's plate that night. Why was she so damn efficient at processing information–

"You're a nightmare." I deadpanned, walking towards the kitchen counter and sinking my elbows on it.

"More so than you it seems." She snorted, casting her eyes back across the living room and landing on the piano. "Impressive accommodation for a civil servant."

"I've had a few more careers than a detective." I murmured, loud enough for her to nod.

"Is it for show or do you play?" She asked with genuine curiosity, eyeing the ornate wood of the piano again.

"Sometimes." I noted dryly. I didn't dare move from the safety of the solid granite island I leant on.

"That means you're talented." She dismissed, standing from the chair and looking deliberately at the fridge and many other appliances behind me.

"Quinn." I warned.

She ignored me and crossed the room bringing her scent with it. I exhaled aggressively trying to wash it out of my system and failing.

"This is hardly taking the time to think things through. It's only been a few hours." I grit out.

She shrugged and waltzed past my perch to open the chrome fridge doors behind me. I turned and frowned when she pulled out a carton of milk.

"This would be quite convincing if it weren't for the date." She remarked with a smirk. "I don't think fake milk from 2018 is very–"

I growled low and moved faster than she could anticipate, swiping the carton from her and slamming the door shut. Her eyes flickered down to my wet shirt and loose hair before they found my eyes again.

"This isn't a museum for mortals." I said darkly.

"You're right this is much too invasive." She replied with heavy irony, "–almost as much as following me to my after hours gym session or tracking me–"