Harbour (Runaway Home #1)

by Penelope Louleas

  "Who exactly was that? I mean, I know he’s the CEO or ex CEO now, but what’s his name?" I whisper to Owen.

  He smirks at me like I’m an idiot. "That was Mr. Whitmore. You know, creator and former CEO of Whitmore Industries." He's staring at me like I have two heads.

  "He's retiring? I had no idea. I was supposed to start working for him on Monday."

  Before Owen can answer the band begins playing Kelly's "favorite song" and she drags him to the dance floor.

  I suddenly realize that I'm standing there alone again so I grab a fresh flute of champagne and decide to have a wander.

  I'm admiring the paintings on the wall in the hallway when I hear a muttered curse. I look over and see a younger man with a shaved head in a tuxedo. His mask is silver. I recognize it from Artemisia's obsession with The Volto Commedia and Carnivale. The mask has defined forehead wrinkles and laugh lines with half-moon eyes and an open, smiling mouth. I can see his piercing blue eyes, but they look anything but happy. They look sad, just like his downturned but beautiful mouth. It's obvious that this gorgeous man is trying to convince the party guests that he is in fact happy, but even the intricate mask can't hide the look of sorrow from his features.

  I realize I've been staring when his lips morph into a cheeky grin. I quickly turn back to the painting I was admiring earlier and clear my throat. My mouth feels dry. I hear him take a step towards me so I move onto the next painting and pretend to admire that. Really, though, this kind of art bores me. Art used to force me to go to all kinds of exhibitions and galleries. I only went because Lo was banned by Art after she repeatedly told her, very loudly, that Charlee's finger-paintings were more interesting.

  I could feel Mr. Happy Mask sidle up beside me. He was at least six-foot-two. I take a deep inhale through my nose, silently, because I don't want him to think I'm a freak. He smells like a real man. That is the best description my foggy, lust-filled brain can muster. His presence exudes power. I can make out his firm, muscular chest and toned arms underneath his perfectly tailored suit. My thoughts are wildly inappropriate and make me blush under my mask.

  "Why are you pretending to admire this boring piece of art when you could be in there dancing with every male millionaire or billionaire in New York?" He smirks and tilts his head towards the ballroom.

  "First of all, this painting isn't boring, it's . . . simple." I take a breath and try to calm myself down. "Second, I've been in there for over an hour and no one has asked me to dance, so to save myself from potential embarrassment I decided to have a wander." I smile up at him and make my way to the next painting up the hall.

  "You're an Aussie," he says.

  "Yes, I am. I just moved here last week." I need to get away from him. Even though I can’t see his face, his body heat alone is fogging up my brain. But I stay, stuck in my place. His light, blue eyes are mesmerizing.

  "I love Australia. I've been a few times. Why New York?" He holds his arms out like a game show host and I’m not sure if he’s overcompensating for the fact I can’t see his face but he seems genuinely interested. I repeat my mantra in my head. Don't shit where you eat.

  "Why not New York? Anyway, you seemed to be having a 'moment' with your phone, so I should leave you to it." I make my way to walk around him but he blocks my path.

  "Stay, talk to me. Please. I could use the company." Even though I highly doubt this hottie would be starved for companionship, the look in his eyes tells me he just wants to talk. I sweep my hand over to the sofa he was sitting on earlier and he smiles. His chest falls quickly as if he let out a breath he’d been holding in.

  "Okay Mr. Happy Mask, what would you like to talk about?"

  He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. "Anything. Tell me about yourself."

  Where do I begin? "I moved here for a change. It's really that simple. I just . . . I needed to explore the world a bit. You know, find myself." How corny is that? Great, he probably thinks I'm some romantic freak.

  "I understand completely. I'm kind of going through the same thing. I need to get away for a while." He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "But let's not go there; I need a break from my crazy life for a moment. Tell me something funny . . ."

  "Cindy." I'm enjoying the anonymity of the mask too much, obviously.

  "Cindy," he says in a deep, baritone voice.

  "Tell me a joke."

  This is weird.

  "Um, okay, how do you get an elephant in a fridge?" I look at his eyes through the holes in the mask and for a moment I almost forget what I was saying. "You open the door and put him in."

  He gives me a small sympathy laugh.

  "I'm not done . . . How do you put a giraffe in the fridge?"

  "You open the door and put it in?" he asks in a teasing tone.

  "You open the door, take the elephant out and then put the giraffe in." I smirk at him and he rolls his eyes and grins.

  "The lion king is hosting an animal conference. All animals attend except one. Which one?" He's silent.

  "The giraffe, 'cause he's in the fridge." Finally, I get a laugh. A real sexy, manly laugh. Probably because he can't believe I'd tell him such a lame joke. I decide to finish it anyway.

  "There's a river you must cross, but it’s infested with crocodiles. What do you do?"

  "I don't know, Cindy, but I can't wait to find out." He laughs, and it’s my turn to roll my eyes and grin.

  "You swim across, because all the crocodiles are at the lion king’s conference . . . obviously." This time we both laugh, whether it’s at my crappy joke or at me I'm not sure, but I'm enjoying every minute of it.

  We slip into easy conversation. For the next two hours we talk about our hometowns and hobbies. We discuss music, sports, anything but our personal lives, and I can tell he appreciates me not asking. I don’t know his name and he only knows me as Cindy. We haven’t even removed our masks.

  As the clock inches towards midnight, I tell him about my bucket list, and that I want to see a new year in with all the people in Times Square.

  "Not this year, of course, but next year for sure." He looks up at the clock, grabs my hand and pulls me out of the building. We make our way, hand in hand, outside into the cold.

  "What are we doing?" I'm nervous and slightly out of breath.

  "We have twenty minutes to make one of your dreams come true. Let's go."

  He opens the door to a car parked in front of the now quiet red carpet and ushers me in. I hear him tell the driver to get us as close as possible to Times Square.

  My heart is racing. I'm overwhelmed by emotions: excitement, nervousness and, thanks to spending two hours talking to sexy, blue eyes, arousal. His voice alone turns me to jelly. I can admit that several times during our conversation I imagined him naked with only his mask on. Even though his mask creeps me out a bit.

  The car pulls up and the driver tells us he can't go any further. Mr. Happy Mask takes my hand and leads me through the crowd. We eventually stop and once I have a chance, I take it all in. The crowd is electric. It's freezing, but with all the warm bodies surrounding us, it's not so bad. He settles in behind me and wraps his arms around my mid-section. "There's not much room out here," he explains. I melt into him, my body molding to his. I feel so perfect in this moment. I really feel like Cinderella. A beautiful gown, a handsome man, and waiting for the clock to strike midnight. He removes one arm and I feel him lift his mask. I opt to keep mine on. I don't look back, not wanting the spell to be broken just yet.

  The countdown begins. "Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . ." he whispers in my ear, and it's all I can hear. "Seven . . . six . . . five . . ." His breath tickles my cheek. "Four . . . three . . . two . . . one. Happy new year, beautiful." I close my eyes to relish the moment and I feel him move from behind me. With my eyes still closed, I feel his lips on mine. I keep my eyes shut tight as I kiss him with the ferocity of a woman who is scared she'll wake up at any moment.

  The crowd is so loud, it's deafening, but it
doesn't bother me because all I care about in that moment are him and me. He kisses me with pure passion, one hand holding the back of my head, the other pulling me closer at my lower back. My hands are trapped in front of me so all I can do is cling to his shirt and sneak a feel of his deliciously hard chest underneath.

  We break apart to catch our breath, and before I open my eyes, his mask is back in place. I grin at him and he leans forward and whispers, "I like a bit of mystery."

  He grabs my hand and leads me through the crowd again. We don't make it back to the Waldorf until one a.m. The party is winding down and the crowd has thinned.

  His phone chirps, alerting him to a new text. I see his mood change dramatically. His breathing becomes heavy and his body tightens. Before he can blow me off, I decide to get out of there.

  "I had a wonderful night. Thank you for making my first New Year's Eve in New York one to remember."

  I kiss the cheek of his mask and walk away. I don't turn back, but I see his reflection in the glass doors. His shoulders and head are down in a defeated expression. It takes all my willpower to continue walking away, but that’s what I do. I realize that if he wanted to, he could've followed me.

  Our parting was mutual.

  Chapter Five

  Two months later...

  Today is different from any other day. It’s Monday morning, and spring in New York. The snow has melted and the trees in Central Park are waking from their three-month slumber and are dressed in a beautiful green, instead of the depressing brown. Winter is officially over, and I'm happy because I love the heat.

  I stand in line at my favorite coffee-shop, which is conveniently situated across the road from my workplace. Today I’m ordering three coffees instead of the normal two. One for my boss, Vivian, one for me, and the third one is for the CEO himself, who, after two months, has finally decided to grace us with his presence.

  I have been working as Vivian's assistant since January, and apparently Mr. Whitmore wanted to keep the new CEO's name on the down low until it was confirmed. Today is the day we get confirmation. If he turns up, that is. The new guy, who Vivian only refers to as "the boss," is one of the most respected men in the business. According to Vivian, he worked his way up, despite who his father is. Today, though, I get to make my own opinion of him.

  I was confused after hearing at the New Year’s Eve ball that Mr. Whitmore had retired. I wasn't sure who my new boss was, and now that I was on a strict "Google diet," I hadn't caved to check him out online. Two months and I haven't Googled a single person. Landmarks, restaurants and movie session times, yes, but no people. Art would be so proud! The normally calm and passive Art smashed my laptop after she caught me Googling her ex-boyfriend one day. I wanted to see what the bastard was up to. She didn't. At least I got a new laptop out of it.

  I pick up the tray holding the three large lattes and made my way over to the bank of elevators. While I wait for one to arrive, I think back to my first impressions of New York and how much it feels like home in just two short months. I guess that's why it was so easy moving from Melbourne to New York. There are so many similarities; all the yellow taxis fighting to get through the busy traffic, the bike messengers speeding around pedestrians, disregarding the road rules, but mostly, it's the eclectic mix of people, some in their designer suits racing to get to work, others in stylish thrift-shop looking clothes, and then, of course, the awestruck tourists taking their time and admiring the view that has been the focal point of many movies and TV shows. This is what I loved. No matter who you were or what you wore, you fit in in New York. New York made you cool by association.

  I step into the elevator alone and press the button for level forty-one. As the doors slowly close, a very expensive looking black shoe wedges between them forcing them to reopen. I slowly look up from the designer shoes and admire the long, toned legs covered by black trousers. My eyes lift to the baby blue, French-cuffed shirt that encases a well-built, muscular chest. I consider stopping my upward gaze so I can leave his face to my imagination, just in case it doesn't match his body, but I can't help myself. I slowly look up to the chiseled jaw, full lips and the most incredible sea-blue eyes I've ever seen. They look familiar. As if that weren't enough, his dark brown hair is thick and slightly long, just enough to grab a hold of, or run my fingers through.

  The only thing that comes to mind is that this stranger has got to be the sexiest man I have ever seen. We'll, I think I've ever seen. God, I would love to feel his chest to see if it is as rock-hard as it looks. My mind starts to think of other wildly inappropriate things he could to me and I to him.

  I blush and look down, realizing I’m staring. I suddenly feel very aware of our close proximity. His scent encompasses me. Subtle cologne fills my nostrils as I take a shaky breath. Shit, he even smells familiar.

  I'm so glad I decided to wear my best dress and heels today.

  I hear a slight chuckle, and I quickly look back up and can tell by the smirk on his face that I had been caught staring, I blush even more and bite down on my bottom lip, then I avert my eyes and stare at the coffees in my hands. I try to think of something I could say to break the tension but all I can think about are his sexy blue eyes and how I could get lost in them.

  I shake my head to rid any inappropriate thoughts and look up again. He is looking at me curiously, and then I realize he has spoken to me, and I missed what he said. I stare at him blankly wishing for the first time in my life that the elevator would stop and that a group of sweaty, old men enter to distract me and snap me out of my trance.

  He smiles, "I hope those aren't all for you . . ." I force a smile back. I know that voice! My Mr. Happy Mask! Oh my God! I'm suddenly very grateful I didn't remove my mask that night. Hopefully he doesn't recognize me.

  Thanks to the amazing restaurants around here, I've put on ten pounds. I'm definitely curvier than I was when I first met him. I try to throw him off by speaking with an American, or more specifically, a New-Yorker accent. "No, only one. I get to meet the CEO for the first time today and from what I have heard he is a bit 'tightly wound' so I’m hoping the caffeine hit will get me on his good side."

  He smiles and holds out his hand. "I’m Lincoln, and you are . . .?" I take his hand and feel a tingle go up my arm. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and my heartbeat accelerates.

  I’m so torn. Do I cut the act and tell him we've met, or just go with it? Odds are he works in a different department, or, maybe even another company in the building. But he was at the company ball, Har! My good and bad consciences are arguing over my shoulders.

  Don't shit where you eat, Harbour. That's my good conscience. She may be good, but she still has a potty mouth. Climb him like a treeeeee! That's the bad one . . . She's really bad. Thankfully, I rarely listen to her.

  Lincoln, A.K.A. Mr. Happy Mask is making me so crazy with his sexy, distracting eyes that I'm having a conversation with my imaginary friends. What am I? Fifteen? Get a grip, Har! Respond, before he thinks you’re nuts.

  "Nice to meet you, Lincoln. I'm Harbour," I say, still using my fake accent.

  Lincoln smirks and a mischievous light enters his eyes. He folds his arms across his broad chest, slightly tilts his head and looks at me with interest. God, he's gorgeous "So, your CEO is a jerk, huh?"

  I smile and relax slightly at his casual tone. Maybe he doesn't recognize me. Why am I disappointed?

  "From the stories I’ve heard he can be quite 'difficult'. He's probably some young go getter who demands perfection and will accept nothing less—and yes, apparently, he’s a bit of a jerk." I smile and say as we exit the elevator. I look at him wondering which department he works in as he smiles and follows me towards the boardroom.

  I'm secretly hoping this isn't the last time I will see him when I see Vivian. She is already setting up the meeting and making sure all documents are in order. She looks up and flashes me a huge smile while walking out of the boardroom which surprises me, because she has never smil
ed at me like that in the two months I have been working for her. I pray it's gratitude for the coffee when a shiver runs down my spine as I realize her smile isn't for me, but for Lincoln.

  Oh shit.

  I slowly turn around and see Lincoln with a huge shit-eating grin spread across his beautiful face and I look at him in horror. This can't be happening. I close my eyes and try to remember exactly what I said in the lift but my brain feels fuzzy. I want to put my head in my hands and cry. I just told the new sexy CEO that I think he's an old, balding jerk! I slowly open my eyes and peek up at him to find he is still smirking at me when Vivian speaks up.

  "Harbour this is Mr. Whitmore, the CEO."

  It’s official; I'm screwed. I stare at the carpet, waiting for Lincoln to say something, which hopefully doesn't include the word “fired.” I blush and mentally chastise myself. Bugger! I've blown it! The last two months of hard work has been blown to shit by a stupid comment I made in a lift. Damn his sexiness for fogging my brain, and causing me to speak like a teenager rather than a professional businesswoman.

  "Hello, Viv. Harbour and I actually met at the masquerade ball. I must say, she has some interesting ideas."

  How embarrassing. Forget offending him. That's not as awkward as the fact that I've been caught using a fake accent and pretending I didn't know who he was.

  I look at Vivian and she is looking back and forth between us with a slight frown. I sigh, knowing when she gets a moment alone with me she will ask twenty questions about what I said, instantly assuming I fucked up somehow. At least she'd be right in her assumption.

  I’m still recovering from the first bit of "constructive feedback” she shared with me on my first day. "You won't last a week here." Why? Simply because I was not wearing high heels; apparently that is a big no-no in this company. Well, at least I'm wearing four inches today; hopefully that will soften the blow.

  I take a deep, steadying breath and turn to Mr. Whitmore. Without my fake accent, I address him. "Here's your coffee, sir. It’s lovely to see you again, and welcome back".