by Ana Huang
He frowned. “Really?”
“Trust me.” I rubbed a hand over my mouth to hide my shit-eating grin. This was like taking candy from a baby. “I’ve known her for years. The comparison really gets her going.”
“Sweet.” The bartender’s skeptical expression cleared, replaced with a delighted smile. “Thanks, man.” He clapped me on the shoulder and poured me another shot. “On the house.”
It was a free open bar so all the drinks were technically on the house, but I didn’t point that out. Instead, I lifted my glass in thanks and grinned harder when I pictured Jules’s reaction to being called JR by the bartender.
She was so predictable. She might as well mark all the buttons I could push with giant, glowing X’s.
And yet…
How do you know I haven’t already?
My glass paused at my lips for a fraction of a second before I shook my head and welcomed the fiery burn of tequila down my throat.
Still, her words echoed in my mind and drove me crazy with their ambiguity.
Who could’ve betrayed Jules? She’d never had a big fallout with Ava, Bridget, or Stella, nor had she had a real boyfriend in the years I’ve known her. Our aversion to committed relationships was one of the few things we had in common.
Was it a high school boyfriend who broke her heart? A family member who fucked her over?
My eyes drifted to the dance floor again. Jules was still dancing with abandon to a remix of the latest pop hit. Ava said something to her, and she threw her head back, her throaty laugh carrying over the music.
Sparkling dress. Sparkling eyes. Looking for all the world like any beautiful, carefree girl with the world at her feet.
How do you know I haven’t already?
I wondered what secrets Jules was hiding beneath that party girl exterior.
And, more importantly, I wondered why I cared.
7
JULES
Ava’s birthday marked a reversal in fortune, because after several shitty weeks, everything ran smoothly again. A more superstitious person might have said too smoothly, but I never looked a gift horse in the mouth. I was going to milk every second of perfect weather, professor’s praises, and random good luck while they lasted.
Case in point: my apartment search, which might finally yield results thanks to Rhys.
The weekend after Ava’s party, I found myself in the lobby of The Mirage, the luxury apartment building Rhys’s friend owned. Rhys had secured a coveted showing for me and Stella, and I’d arrived early not only because I was paranoid about running late—D.C.’s metro was notoriously unreliable—but also because I needed a quiet spot to take my interview with the Legal Health Alliance Clinic (LHAC).
Although I’d received a job offer from Silver & Klein last summer, I couldn’t join as a practicing attorney until I passed the bar exam. Most firms allowed graduates to join before results were out, but not Silver & Klein.
I needed a short-term job to tide me over between graduation and the release of the results in October. The temporary research associate position at LHAC, a medical-legal partnership where doctors and lawyers worked together to provide care to underserved communities, was perfect.
“That’s all the questions I have today,” I said after Lisa, the clinic’s legal director, finished describing what a typical workday looked like. I sank deeper into the lobby’s velvet couch, glad no one else was around except for the receptionist. I didn’t want to be one of those people who took obnoxious business calls in public. Unfortunately, I had nowhere else to take the interview without risking missing the showing. “Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me.”
“Of course,” Lisa said, her voice warm. “I’ll be honest since you’re the last candidate we’re interviewing. You’re the best candidate I’ve spoken to. Great work experience, great grades, and I think you’ll fit in wonderfully with the rest of the staff.” She hesitated for two beats before adding, “I don’t usually do this right after an interview, but I’d like to extend an unofficial offer for you to join the clinic. I’m happy to send an official email later, and you can think it—”
“I accept!” My cheeks flushed at my eagerness, but fuck it. Getting the job would be a huge burden off my shoulders. I could stop the job search and focus on bar prep, which was going to take up all my free time.
Lisa laughed. “Great! Any chance you can start Monday? Eight a.m.?”
“Absolutely.” I’d stacked my classes so they were all on Tuesday and Thursday, and I had the rest of the week free.
“Perfect. I’ll send an email with details later. I look forward to working with you, Jules.”
“I look forward to working with you too.” I hung up with a grin. It was all I could do not to break out into a little dance in the middle of the lobby.
Whatever pixie dust had been sprinkled at Ava’s party, I needed a gallon of it ASAP. I’d never had such consistent good luck.
Then again, maybe the universe was reimbursing me for the way the bartender had hit on me after the party ended. He’d called me JR and told me how much he loved my resemblance to Jessica fucking Rabbit. I’d almost thrown my drink in his face.
I bet Josh had something to do with it. He probably fed the bartender some bullshit about how I liked being called JR.
What an asshole.
But no. I wouldn’t let thoughts of Josh ruin what had otherwise been an incredible week.
I took a deep breath and tried to return to my happy place when I heard the guy manning the front desk make a strangled noise.
I lifted my head in time to see Stella rush through the revolving doors.
“Sorry, I got held up at work and left as soon as I could,” she said breathlessly, oblivious to the way the receptionist was ogling her. Her legs were so long it only took her a few strides to reach me. “Am I late?”
“Nope. The leasing director hasn’t—”
I didn’t finish my sentence before a well-groomed woman in a sleek gray suit approached us, her expression as brisk as her stride.
“Ms. Ambrose, Ms. Alonso. I’m Pam, the Director of Leasing for The Mirage.”
“Nice to meet you, Pam,” I drawled, amused by how she spoke like she was the director of the NSA instead of an apartment building. That was a feature in D.C., not a bug. Everyone pretended they were more important than they actually were, which wasn’t surprising in a city where the first question someone asked after meeting you was always, What do you do?
It was a town of walking resumes and career climbers, and I wasn’t ashamed to say I was one of them. A good career meant good money, and good money meant security, shelter, and food on the table. If someone wanted to shame me for wanting those things, they could fuck right off.
I flinched when Stella jabbed her elbow in my side.
“Get your pointy elbows away from me,” I whispered.
“Don’t ruin our chances of getting this apartment,” she whispered back.
“All I said was nice to meet you.”
“It’s your tone.” Stella shot me a warning stare as we followed Pam toward the elevator.
“My tone?” I placed a hand over my chest. “My tone is always impeccable.”
Stella sighed, and I stifled a grin. She was the most unflappable of all my friends, so I considered it an achievement when I riled her up. Then again, she’d been a little less unflappable these past few months. Our house was always sparkling clean, which was a sure sign she was stressed.
I didn’t blame her. From what she told me, her boss at D.C. Style gave Miranda Priestly a run for her money.
While we rode the elevator up to the tenth floor, Pam rambled on about the building’s amenities. They included a rooftop lounge and pool, a state-of-the-art gym, and a twenty-four-seven doorman and concierge.
The more she spoke, the more my anticipation and worry spiked. The Mirage’s website hadn’t listed rent prices, but I’d bet my impending law degree it was expensive as hell. Rhys said his frien
d would give us a generous discount, but he hadn’t specified how much.
God, I hoped we could afford it. I would kill for a rooftop pool, though I didn’t care much for the gym. The only workouts I liked were the ones in bed, and even then, it’d been a while. Nothing killed one’s love life like law school.
We stopped in front of a dark wood door with 1022 inscribed in gold.
“Here we are. The last available unit at The Mirage,” Pam said proudly. She opened the door, and Stella and I let out simultaneous gasps.
Oh. My. God.
It was like someone took my dream apartment and 3D-printed it into reality. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony, gleaming parquet floors, a brand-new kitchen with marble counters, and a cooking island. I’d always wanted one of those.
I didn’t cook, but that was only because I’d never had an island. I could only imagine how good my food deliveries—I mean, my home-cooked meals—would look sprawled across that beautiful expanse of granite.
And while I shouldn’t spend so much money on food deliveries when I was trying to save money, it was better than wasting money on groceries that went bad because I didn’t know how to properly cook them. Right?
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Pam beamed with the enthusiasm of a pet owner showing off her prized poodle at Westminster.
I managed a nod. I might’ve also been drooling; I wasn’t sure.
Then Pam showed us the bedrooms, and I was positive I was drooling, because the bedrooms had walk-in closets. Small ones, but still. Walk-in closets.
A strangled noise slipped from Stella’s throat.
As a fashion blogger, she owned more clothes and accessories than any human should own, and I could already see her mentally color-coordinating her clothes.
On the list of things Stella would give up her left arm for, a walk-in closet ranked number three, after a collaboration with Delamonte, her favorite fashion brand, and an extended trip through Italy filled with pasta, shopping, and sunsets over wine.
I wasn’t making it up. She had a written list pinned to the bulletin board in her bedroom.
“The apartment is okay.” I attempted to sound as casual as possible. “How much is the rent again?”
Pam told us, and I almost choked on my spit. Even Stella flinched at the number.
Seventy-five hundred dollars. Per month. Not including utilities.
That wasn’t rent. That was highway robbery.
“Oh,” Stella said faintly. “Um, I think our friend mentioned we were eligible for a special discount. How much is rent then?”
Pam arched one penciled-in brow, her smile wilting. “That is the price of rent with the discount, dear.” Condescension dripped from the last word, and Stella flinched again.
I placed a protective hand on her arm and glared at Pam. Who did she think she was? She had no right to look down on us. Just because we weren’t obscenely rich didn’t mean we were any less than the residents at The Mirage.
“She is not your dear,” I said coldly. “And how is it legal to charge that much for one apartment?”
Pam’s nostrils flared. She drew herself up to her full height, her voice quivering with outrage. “Ms. Ambrose, I assure you, everything we do here at The Mirage is aboveboard. If the pricing is outside your budget, might I suggest you look somewhere more—”
“Is everything all right, Pam?” A smooth, deep voice sliced through the air like a freshly sharpened knife.
“Mr. Harper.” Pam’s patronizing tone disappeared with the suddenness of a blown-out candle flame. Breathless deference replaced it. “I thought you were in New York.”
I turned, curious to see who had the snobby leasing director so worked up, and the air whooshed out of my lungs in one strong gust.
Holy mother of God.
Thick, wavy, dark brown hair. Cheekbones that could chisel ice. Eyes the color of whiskey and broad shoulders that filled out his expensive Italian wool suit like it was custom-made for him, which it probably was. Everything about him screamed wealth and power, and his sex appeal was so potent I could practically taste it.
I’d met my fair share of good-looking guys, but the man before me…wow.
“My business in the city wrapped up earlier than expected.” The godlike man smiled at me. “Christian Harper. Owner of The Mirage.”
Harper. Why did that name sound so familiar?
“Jules Ambrose. Future owner of a penthouse at The Mirage,” I quipped.
After I became a partner at Silver & Klein, that is. It will happen. Stella was the woo-woo one with her crystals and horoscopes, but I low-key believed in manifestation as long as I mixed it with a healthy dose of hard work. It’d gotten me out of Ohio and into Thayer Law after all.
Amusement glowed in Christian’s eyes. “Nice to meet you, Jules. I expect you’ll be buying the penthouse from me sometime in the future then.”
My eyebrows rose. So he actually lived at The Mirage. I’d expected him to reign over a mansion in the suburbs, but on second glance, Christian Harper did not look like a man who would live in the suburbs. He screamed city vibes through and through.
Black coffee. Expensive watches. Fast cars.
Christian turned to Stella. His face remained relaxed, but something flared in his eyes, hot and bright enough to drown out his earlier amusement.
He held out his hand. After a brief hesitation, she took it.
“I’m Stella.”
“Stella,” he repeated, softly and slowly, like he was savoring the syllables. He didn’t move an inch, but the intensity of his stare was so strong it pulsed in the air. Time seemed to slow, and I wondered if that was a superpower of the rich—manipulating reality until it bent to their will.
A pink flush rose on Stella’s cheeks. She opened her mouth, then closed it and glanced down at where his hand still gripped hers.
Another long second stretched by before Christian released her hand and stepped back with an indecipherable expression etched on his perfect features.
The movement pressed play on the scene, and time returned to normal. Pam stirred, the faint honks of cars ten floors below filtered through the glass windows, and my breath rushed out in an exhale.
Christian’s gaze lingered on an uncharacteristically wary-looking Stella for a fraction of a second longer before he shifted his attention back to me. The intensity disappeared, replaced with a portrait of easy charm and hospitality once again.
“How do you like the apartment?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful but out of our budget,” I admitted. “We appreciate you setting up this tour for us though. Thank you.”
“Well.” Pam cleared her throat. “Mr. Harper, I can take it from here. I’m sure you have plenty of—”
“What’s your budget?” Christian asked, ignoring his leasing director completely.
Stella and I exchanged glances before I responded.
“Twenty-five hundred a month. Total.” I was almost embarrassed to say it out loud. It was a pathetic fraction of the regular rent.
I’d expected Christian to laugh in our faces and throw us out. Instead, he rubbed a thumb over his bottom lip, his expression speculative.
Silence descended again, but this time it was filled with breathless anticipation—mostly mine, though a glimmer of hope shone in Stella’s eyes as well.
I tried to tamp down my expectations. There was no way he’d agree to that price. Christian was a businessman, and businessmen did not—
“Done,” he said.
Pam’s mouth fell open in shock.
I hated to admit it, but my face likely matched hers. “Excuse me?”
There was a difference between not looking a gift horse in the mouth and questioning something that was completely insane. Sure, Christian was friends with Rhys and Rhys was future royalty, so it didn’t hurt to be in his good graces, but we weren’t Rhys’s family or anything. The Mirage would be taking a huge financial hit if Christian rented the apartment to us for such a low price.
&
nbsp; Or maybe it wouldn’t. I didn’t know. There was a reason I studied law and not business or economics.
“Twenty-five hundred a month. Done,” Christian said as casually as if he were buying a Starbucks coffee. “Pam, draw up the papers.”
A vein pulsed in her temple. “Mr. Harper, I think we need to discuss—”
Those whiskey eyes sharpened and lanced into her.
Pam fell silent, though her expression remained mutinous.
“I’ll wait here.” A razored edge ran beneath Christian’s otherwise genial tone.
Another warning, this one less subtle.
“Of course.” Pam’s mouth stretched into a forced smile. “I’ll be right back.”
I waited until she left before I crossed my arms over my chest and narrowed my eyes at Christian. “What’s the catch?”
He straightened his suit sleeve. “Elaborate.”
“Twenty-five hundred a month would barely cover the utilities, much less the rent. I know we’re friends of a friend and all, but it doesn’t make financial sense.”
If something seemed to good to be true, it probably was. There had to be a catch.
The corner of Christian’s mouth tugged up. “Unless you install an indoor water park and keep it running twenty-four-seven, I doubt your utilities will cost that much each month. And there is no catch. Rhys is an old friend, and I owe him a favor.”
“How do you know him?” Stella asked.
Christian paused, that indecipherable expression flickering across his face again before he responded with a smooth, “We used to work together.”
Suddenly, it clicked.
“Harper Security,” I said, naming the elite private security firm Rhys worked for when he was Bridget’s bodyguard. “You’re the CEO.”
“At your service,” he drawled.
“I hope not.” Any situation that required me or Stella to get a bodyguard wouldn’t be a good one. “So, there’s really no catch?”
“No. My only stipulation is you sign today. I doubt members of The Mirage’s waiting list would be happy I let you skip the line, and I can’t guarantee this offer will be available if you wait until tomorrow or even tonight.”
