by Amelia Wilde
I take another shower, stripping myself of all the scents from the Four Seasons. My hair is heavy and wet, but I don’t bother drying it. I towel it off and then brush it back, hard, into a tight bun.
I could use a trim, and it’ll be nice to have someone wash my hair and massage my temples. My favorite salon in the city is three blocks away, so before I do anything else, I text my hairdresser, Janine. She normally doesn’t do weekend appointments, but today is my lucky day.
I laugh bitterly at the thought.
I’m doing a wedding party at the salon tomorrow. Done at 3:00. You want to come down?
Hell yes.
:)
Janine is the one person I can count on in the entire city not to ask me about Ace Kingsley, and the thought loosens some of the tension in my shoulders.
That asshole isn’t going to get the better of me. Not today, not ever.
And you know what? I’m done with one-night stands. He was hot as hell, and the sex was…well, it was mind-blowing. If I think about it separately from his douchebag behavior this morning, it still makes the space between my legs heat up.
Forget about him. There’s a man out there who’s even better, and when the time is right, I’ll find him, and I’ll take him. No doubt about it.
Some doubt pricks at the back of my mind. Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent sure that somebody can top that?
The brutal truth? No. I’m not sure, and it pisses me off.
In the end, what can I do?
Ace Kingsley wants nothing to do with me. When it comes right down to it, I’m probably dodging a bullet by not getting involved with him. Past experience tells me that it would end in disaster. The memory of cheating Anderson floats into view, and I slap it away, forcing it back into the past.
Not entirely, of course. But enough that I can move on.
Well, screw him. I don’t want anything to do with him either.
On Sunday afternoon, I linger in my walk-in closet, choosing a boho maxi dress in a bright, cheery pattern and pairing it with buttery leather boots. I start with my best bra and panty set, the one that makes me feel the sexiest, and then slip the dress on over my shoulders, finishing with the boots.
Then I sit down at my lighted vanity and open my makeup case. Two weeks ago I went to the makeup megastore on 5th and 9th and filled a bag with new stuff from Smashbox and Elizabeth Arden, replenishing my stash with smooth new containers and bottles and a new set of brushes. I work my own magic on my face until there’s no sign I might have been holding back tears.
I look damn fabulous.
There’s only one more thing I need to do before I head to the salon. My laptop is right where I left it, perched on the desk in the living room, the fall sunlight streaming down on it like some kind of heavenly beacon. The dust motes in the air are almost transfixing.
Yeah—a nap is in order when I get back from being pampered.
I flip open the cover of the laptop and tap at the keyboard to wake it up. It takes no time to respond, and in seconds I’m at the Rainflower Blue login screen.
Of course, today is the day that the site has exploded with traffic, with new posts.
And they’re all about Ace Kingsley.
At least half of them are about Ace Kingsley leaving the Swan last night.
My heart rate speeds up.
I have options. I can confirm some of the rumors, as Magnolia, right now. I can ignore it entirely and wait until this blows over. Or I can keep watching, waiting, until the right move becomes more obvious.
I choose the most innocuous thread, titled ACE KINGSLEY, NEW YORK CITY?? and make a post at the end of all the chatter. Ace Kingsley is back in New York City. Then I change the title of the thread to read CONFIRMED: ACE KINGSLEY IS IN NEW YORK CITY.
That will be enough fodder for discussion until I feel like wading into this. I need to know what people are saying before I respond, if I ever do. The fact that I went home with him last night won’t help or harm anyone.
Unless, of course, he’s got a secret wife from Italy who also happens to be a member of Rainflower Blue.
Doubtful.
When in doubt, stay silent.
I’ll come back to this when I’m good and ready.
I grab my purse from the hook by the door and sling it over my shoulder, feeling lighter already. At least the conversation about Ace is in my kingdom. I can engage with it if I choose. I’m in control.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby a few moments later. I can’t wait to be back in the September sun.
I take a deep breath as I step out in front of the building, looking forward to the stroll I have ahead of me, only to be confronted with the sight of a massive moving truck. There are six men moving furniture out of it and onto the sidewalk.
Someone’s moving into my building.
I vaguely remember running into the realtor in the elevator a few weeks ago, but this seems like a quick sale. As far as I know, the only unit available in the building is the penthouse unit, and that would have to be….
My thoughts grind to a halt as a man in a white button-down tucked into flawlessly pressed, tailored pants steps around from the back of the truck, directing the other men in a voice that’s as collected and confident as ever.
It’s Ace Kingsley.
And that asshole is moving into my place.
Chapter Twelve
Ace
My realtor, Hilary, was only too happy to oblige me with a lightning round of property shopping in the city yesterday, and the second place we visited was a perfect fit.
It’s a penthouse unit in Midtown, far enough away from my place on the Upper East Side to offer a clean slate.
Hilary rushed the paperwork through—anything is possible with the right incentive—and even though I won’t be able to sign the final documents until Friday, my new move-in day is today.
I’m having her tag everything in the old penthouse for sale, except my personal items. There’s a team of people working on packing up my clothes and books and other miscellaneous things right now.
After I shook hands with Hilary, I went down to a furniture store owned by a friend in Chelsea and spent the rest of the evening choosing all new furniture—entire rooms worth of chairs, sofas, decorations, a new bed for the master bedroom, bookshelves, everything. He called in several of his people to work overtime having the majority of it collected for this morning, when I sent a moving truck to pick it all up at once.
This new place is going to be fucking perfect.
My heart pounds as I climb out of the Bentley. The moving truck is already pulled up in front of the new building. I’m normally not one to micromanage the staff, but this day is going to go off without a hitch or I’ll be damned.
One of the guys from the moving company—the embroidered name on his shirt reads Ricky—detaches from the little knot of men standing near the curb and approaches, his hand out for a shake.
“Mr. Kingsley?” His accent is strong, and he wears a wide smile.
“In the flesh.”
“Great to meet you, sir. I’m Ricky, and this is my crew. We’ll have your things up to your place in no time. The penthouse, right?”
“That’s right.”
He cranes his neck to look up at the building and lets out a low whistle. “You must be big-time.”
“You could say that.”
Normally, I wouldn’t spend time on chatting with some nobody from a moving company, but there’s a humming in my veins today that’s wiping away some of the black fog from the weekend. Electricity arcs over my skin. I can see just how every single one of these pieces is going to fit into the new place.
This time, I’m going to get it right.
Ricky claps his hands together. “Well, enough with the small talk. Let’s get you moved in.”
“Sounds great.”
I move around to the back of the truck. When two of Ricky’s guys slide the door open, I can’t help but smile. This stack of furnitur
e is about to become my new domain, and it feels fucking great.
They start unloading a few of the pieces in back, shooting me questions every so often about which room this chair is for, where the bed is going to go. The penthouse is spacious enough that moving things around inside shouldn’t be an issue, but Ricky has moving down to a science, so he doesn’t want to waste time rearranging too much once it’s up there.
Good man.
Things are migrating onto the sidewalk when Ricky nods at me from the top of the ramp leading down from the truck bed. “Excuse us, Mr. Kingsley. We’re going to need to put a sofa right where you’re standing. Was this for the master bedroom or the living room?”
“The living room,” I say as I step up onto the curb, backing up a little bit to get clear of the other furniture. “The leather one is for the living area of the master bedroom.”
“Right,” Ricky says, his muscles flexing as he carries the sofa down the ramp. It’s not going to be long until they’re taking things in through the lobby. This building has a freight elevator in back, which is mighty convenient.
I turn toward the front entrance to see how much foot traffic we might be blocking—not that I really care—and that’s when I see her.
My mouth goes dry, and I can feel the adrenaline spiking through my veins.
Holy fuck.
There, standing on the sidewalk, looking at me, is Carolyn Banks, looking like a goddamn vision in some kind of flowing dress, her lips red and vibrant, her hair spilling down over her back.
Her dark eyes are huge and wide, and her mouth is half open.
At first, my brain can’t make the connection, and when it does, it’s like I’m being swept under by a tidal wave.
This is Carolyn’s building.
Her expression confirms it. She wouldn’t care at all if she were leaving a friend’s place. She wouldn’t be frozen on the sidewalk if she never had to come back here.
The wave of sheer excitement that first hit me fades beneath a jolt of pain.
Oh, shit.
I can’t silence the drumbeat in my mind.
Of all the apartments in New York City. Of all the buildings I could have chosen to move into. And this one is hers. It’s fucking hers.
Heat crackles between us, even from 20 feet away.
Is this a cruel trick from the universe or a goddamn neon sign blinking BE WITH HER over and over in the night?
She straightens her back, and her lips press together into a thin line. Then she tears her eyes away from mine, turns around so gracefully it hurts to watch, and moves down the sidewalk, her steps measured. She’s not rushing. She’s the queen of everything around her.
Steel races up my spine. Well, awkwardness be damned. If I can’t handle running into Carolyn Banks in the elevator now and then, who the hell am I?
At least now I’ll have an excuse for thinking about her ceaselessly, every second that I’m awake. She’ll be close. So close.
She might not want me to be here, but I’m done backing down. I’m done hiding.
I’m moving into this building, come hell or high water.
Chapter Thirteen
Carolyn
So what if Ace Kingsley lives on the top floor of my building?
I’m not going anywhere.
I’ve lived in my apartment for seven years, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some man chase me out of it because I can’t bear to run into him in the lobby. Not a chance.
It hasn’t happened yet—aside from that weird encounter on the sidewalk—but it will, and I’ll handle it with grace.
He’ll never know how my hands tremble when I’m waiting for the elevator, or how my heart pounds when the doors slide open to let me out. In case he might be there.
I hate him.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to avoid a man you hate.
He could have chosen any building in New York City to move into, but….
I lock the front door to the boutique with a vicious wrench of the key, then take in a deep breath of crisp evening air. I appreciated the silence of the apartment all weekend, but now I’m torn. I don’t want to go out, but I don’t want to stay in alone either…especially knowing that he is in my building, just a few stories up…. No. I’m not going to think about it.
On the walk back to my place, I pull my phone from my pocket and text Jess.
Girls’ night in?
She’s rarely in town now that she’s the Queen of Saintland—it sounds fake, but it’s so, so real—and I need to seize the opportunity to hang out with her when I can.
If she’s free, that is. Between her husband and her daughter, she’s probably wrapped up in—
Yes!!!! I’ll bring wine!
That’s my girl.
When she arrives at my apartment 40 minutes later, I’ve changed into a pair of black yoga pants and a matching hoodie. Jess, I’m glad to see, has left her formal queenly attire at her hotel suite and worn similar night-in attire, as well.
“Love the outfit!” I say when I open the door, and she twirls around, holding two bottles of wine up above her head.
“It’s like we planned it!” She glances at my hoodie and yoga pants. “You have no idea how much I need this. Every day in Saintland is jam-packed with appearances and formal meetings. I never get to wear yoga pants.”
“Tonight’s your lucky night.” I lead the way into the kitchen to get the corkscrew, then—because why the hell not?—I open both bottles of wine.
Jess claps her hands. “Go big or go home!”
“Popcorn?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
We chat about her daughter, Lillian, while I pop two enormous bowls of popcorn and drown each of them with the ideal amount of butter and special popcorn salt I bought in the Village. We each carry a bowl into the living room, the bottles of wine tucked into the crook of my arm. Jess goes back to the kitchen for the wine glasses. She sets them out on the coffee table, then lets herself fall back onto the sofa, pulling one of my microfleece blankets off the back of the couch and tossing it over our legs.
“Feels like home,” she says, and reaches for the popcorn, stuffing a handful into her mouth.
I lean against the backrest and sigh. “It’s a good place.”
“Totally agree. I’d still live here if it wasn’t for Alec.” Her eyes glimmer when she says his name, and an icy flash stabs me in my chest. I swallow the jealousy with my next sip of wine and concentrate hard on the fact that my friend and former roommate is happy. That’s all that matters, not the fact that Ace Kingsley is an ass.
Jess reaches for the remote like she never left, turns on the TV, and starts flicking through Netflix. We lived together long enough that she doesn’t have to ask me what I want to watch to relax—either a cheesy romantic comedy or an over-the-top action movie will do. She settles on action, some film I’ve never heard of, and turns the volume down low.
For a while, we make dents in the popcorn bowls in relative silence, but then Jess sits up, a gleam in her eyes, and turns so she’s facing me.
“Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”
“What do you mean?” I set my wine glass onto the coffee table.
“Ha!” she says, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Don’t you play dumb with me, missy. Ace Kingsley. You practically ran out of the Swan together the other night.”
I roll my eyes. “Nothing happened.”
“Lies….” She looks up and to the side, above the TV, and waits.
“Fine. I went to his place.”
“To his apartment?”
“To the penthouse at the Four Seasons.”
“Holy shit,” Jess breathes. “That place costs…it must cost….”
“Fifty thousand a night.”
“The country of Saintland wouldn’t pay for the king to stay there!”
“Well, Ace Kingsley thinks of himself as royalty.” The joke comes out bitter, and Jess sends me a look.
/> “What happened at his place, Carrie?”
“Well…you know.”
“Fine. You don’t have to give me the details. So it ended badly?”
“It ended with him acting like a total prick. The next morning, he started acting like a total douchebag. Said that we shouldn’t ‘do this’ again. And I know for a fact that I’m amazing in bed.”
Jess dissolves into laughter, then straightens herself up, her face struggling to be serious. “So what’s his problem then?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t blue balls.” The wine is making me raunchy, but I don’t care. I’m just glad to have Jess here.
“No chance of that,” she says finally, getting control of herself.
I sigh. “That’s not the worst thing.”
Her hand pauses halfway to the bowl of popcorn. “What’s the worst thing? You’re not pregnant, are you?”
I have to laugh at that. “No. God no.” I take another sip of wine. “He…moved in.”
Jess whips her head around toward the second bedroom, which is currently unoccupied and should probably become an office, since I don’t see any roommates on the horizon. “Here?”
“Yes, Jess, after that wonderful night and kicking me out the following morning, I invited him to move in with me at my apartment. Are you drunk already?”
“No,” she says with a giggle.
“He moved into the building.” I point above us. “Two floors up. The penthouse.”
Jess leans forward, eyes sparkling. “That. Is. Awesome.”
“It’s terrible!” I wail. “And awkward.”
“No, it’s the best,” she says. “Now you can show him what he’s missing…and maybe even seduce him again.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?”
Jess gives a little shrug. “For the hell of it?”
I purse my lips, remembering. “He was good in bed.”
“Hey,” she says, reaching for more popcorn. “He’s the one who chose to move in. I say take him for all he’s worth.”
