{KAYLA}
Jerome Wynne is already sitting in a leather armchair by a fireplace.
Why would they light up the fireplace in summer?
There's another chair near him, only separated by a small, wooden coffee table.
His legs spread before him, and he's grabbing a cigar from a box. He smells it, hums to himself, and puts it back.
Ignoring him, I walk around the room. It's an old money kind of room, the whole building is. There are some ugly-ass rugs on the floor and shelves full of books. Not many colors except every single shade of brown and red that's ever existed. And wood. Lots of wood and old leather.
I bite the nail of my index finger as I look at the shelves, pretending to read book titles. It's even harder to walk around in these heels now that they're being swallowed by the giant rug at every step I take.
I hear him shift in his seat behind me, the leather creaking under him, and I take a book in my hands, opening it and dragging
