"Not yet."
"It's such a complete and utter waste of your time to flirt with me."
"There's no such thing as time wasted when I'm around you. I love every minute of it."
Where is Gidget with that water.
"Let me be frank. I have a type and you're not it."
"Someone once told me that I was everyone's type."
"Well someone lied to you."
I look down at my hands when I say that, because I tend to look away when I'm lying straight through my teeth.
"Sloan . . . look at me."
I lift my head slowly. Unsure of whether or not he's seen through my ruse.
"What's his name?" He stares gently into my eyes. "I'm not going to threaten him. I'm not going to hurt him. Just give me the name, and I'm out of here."
"Why do you want to find him so badly?" I ask anxiously. "If I give you the name, then what are you going to do?"
"Don't worry," he assures me with a small smile. "I'm not whoever or whatever terrible thing you think I am, and I guarantee you that I can be very charming with assholes. Much more charming than Roman will be. I just want to have another small chat with him, minus the kicking him in his ribs part, to make sure that the two of us are on the same page. That's it."
"I haven't heard a peep out of him, and I don't think Dawn has either. I don't think you even need to bother. Like I said–"
"Sloan, I kicked him in the ribs. Hard. He probably can't talk or at least doesn't want to right now. A punk kid like him is probably filled with rage and embarrassment over what I did, that I did it publicly, and the fact that I did it for you. I just want to make sure that I dot my i's and cross my t's. Calm him down a little."
"Okay, but I'm trusting you."
Something I don't do too often.
"Understood."
"His name is . . . Damien Hardwick."
"Do you know where he lives?"
"Now you're pushing it."
"What's the point of the name if I can't find him."
"I thought finding people was your specialty."
"You're cute."
He taps my nose.
"Is that right."
"I think you know how cute you are, Ms. Pearson."
There's a knock at the door, and oh my God, it's Gidget again.
"Hi there." She flashes nothing but teeth and gums. "Sorry to interrupt again, but I'm back with your water, Mister–"
"Right . . . the water," I mumble to myself.
"The name's King, darlin'. Don't forget it."
Gidget starts to blush and while it was funny earlier, it isn't as funny now. It's starting to grate my nerves.
"Here you go, Mr. King. Is there anything else I can get for you?"
She makes sure to place an emphasis on the word anything.
"No, this is great."
Cutter twists open the plastic cap and chugs down the entire bottle in a few long swallows as we both shamelessly watch. I'm not really sure how he can make something as simple as drinking a bottle of spring water look totally pornographic but he does.
After Gidget leaves to no doubt dry her thong out in the bathroom, Cutter and I finish up our conversation. Now it's his turn to lean forward on the desk and for the first time, I notice a tattoo on his left hand. I'm not sure how I've missed it in the past. An intricate king's crown that spans the width of his hand. Each tip of the crown inked on each of his fingers up to the first knuckle. I'm staring right at it when he asks me the most unusual question.
"Do you believe in love, princess?"
I almost laugh at the ludicrousness of the question.
"What?"
"It's a simple question."
"You ask everybody questions like that?"
"It's just a question. Not a proposition."
"Fine. No, I don't think I do."
"Why?"
"Probably because I've never seen a good example of it."
My parents have a terrible marriage.
"I knew it."
He taps his palms on top of the desk, then stands up like he just made some sort of great discovery.
"You knew what?"
"That you're totally my type."
Cutter walks around to the other side of my desk. Because I'm still sitting, I can't help but turn around in my chair to see what he's going to do next. He's so tall that my head is dangerously close to his crotch.
I reactively take a small breath and hold it.
Still holding.
He takes a hold of my chin with his thumb and pointer finger and raises my head up, holding it steady and meeting my gaze.
"I don't believe in love either," he continues. "It makes things much simpler when both parties have no grand illusions of anything more happening."
"Well, aren't we both the saddest," I say not quite loud enough for him to understand me completely.
"You know you look fucking beautiful in this position. Low to the ground. Chin up. Eyes on me. I'd love to kiss you right now."
I nearly choke on my own saliva as he bends down dangerously low to reach my mouth. He stops just a few millimeters from my lips, perhaps waiting to see if I'll protest, but I don't–so he continues on.
His mouth is warm and hesitant at first. Testing me. Teasing me. Making me raise my head and adjust my neck just a little higher to make contact. Making me work for it. It's such a fucking turn on.
His hand slides into my hair, cradling the uninjured side of my face, as his tongue slowly begins to move and curl inside of my mouth. He controls the tempo of the kiss. It isn't rushed. It's exploratory. In fact it's almost reverent. Like he's cherishing each and every moment. It's the most incredible kiss I've ever had in my life. And all I can think about, is that if he kisses like this, what else he must be able to do. To my body and worst of all . . . to my heart.
I break the connection between us. Forcefully pushing my chair back with my butt and standing. I've made a big mistake allowing that kiss to happen.
"I'm leaving," I say totally flustered.
"This is your office," he says as his chest rumbles with an almost sinister laughter. "Where are you going?"
"To call security," I deadpan as I try to gain back my composure.
"Did you know your sarcastic sense of humor is one of the things I really like about you? You remind me a lot of myself."
"So my theory is right then."
"And what's that?" he asks while wiping some of my lip gloss off of his bottom lip.
"That ultimately you'd like to fuck yourself."
That comment makes Cutter laugh out loud with such a rich, resonant, rumble that the entire floor must be shaking, and the fact that I am responsible for it is something I oddly find gratifying.
"I'll see you later," he says before I make my exit.
I don't know if he intended that as a threat or a promise, but he says the casual farewell in a way that makes me think he knows something that I don't.
"And why on earth would we see each other later? I've seen enough of you for a lifetime."
He stands to leave.
"I'll be stopping by to check on one of my new investments tonight."
New investment?
"What in the ham sandwich are you talking about, and what does that have to do with me?"
"I'm your new landlord."
"You're my what?!"
Oh. Hell. No.
Fifteen
Sloan
"You're laughing at me again."
"I know. I'm sorry–"
Elizabeth can't even finish her sentence as she laughs even louder. I don't understand it. She's never laughed this much the entire time I've known her nerdy ass. She's lucky that she's growing a little baby Roman inside of that tummy of hers, because I swear that I'm ten seconds away from throttling her.
"I mean it, Elizabeth Hill. Shut your cute little pregnant trap."
We're in our old favorite haunt, Java The Hut, and I'm waiting for my caramel macchiato with a double shot of es
presso while she waits for her mug of decaffeinated green tea.
Elizabeth holds her stomach, palms flat on her growing pouch, as she tries to subdue her laughter. "But your life is incredibly funny."
"My life is not a sitcom. My life is shit. I'm starting to hate my job. I have a black eye. My sister is barely speaking to me. I can't get laid to save my life. And the icing on the cake? The number one person that I need to steer clear of is now my freakin' landlord."
"He had some sort of fight with his brother."
"So?"
"I guess he needed another place to live, so he bought one." Elizabeth isn't laughing anymore, but it doesn't matter, because I can see it all in her eyes, that she is completely entertained by this twist of fate.
"Wait . . . do you think that he's going to actually live in the building too? What's he going to do. Kick out one of the tenants because–"
"What?"
"Wait he can't be."
"He can't be what?" she asks with a look of anxious glee.
"There's only one vacancy in my building that I know of. On my floor. Next door to Kyle. But he wouldn't."
Elizabeth takes a sip of her tea and smiles at me over the top of the mug. "Aah, but he would. He's a King."
I take a sip of my coffee like it's a shot of whiskey.
"So what you're saying is that you think it's totally possible that he bought my building and is moving in next door to me?"
"I'm afraid so. Hey, lift up your bandage so I can take a peek."
I lift up one side of my bandage for a few seconds then stick it back down.
"Is it presumptuous of me to say that he did this solely to get on my one last good nerve? I mean it can't be a coincidence. Didn't the dark knight tell you anything?"
"No, I only know about the dispute between the Kings, because I was eavesdropping on Roman's phone conversation with Camden. I didn't know anything about him buying your building."
"I'm never going home."
"What?" She giggles. "You have to. You live there. Let's order some croissants. I'm starving."
"It's cold in my house. My thermostat is broken. The super said the thing is busted, but that he'd need the landlord's purchase approval to install another one. The landlord never got back to him. Now I see why. He was too busy selling the damn building to a lunatic."
"Get an electric blanket and go home."
"If there were mice in my house I wouldn't go home."
"That's stupid too, and don't talk about mice when I'm hungry."
"You're afraid of mice as much as I am."
"Yes, but I'd hire an exterminator to get rid of them. I wouldn't just leave my home, crazy girl. I didn't realize that Cutter brought out this type of visceral reaction from you. What else happened when he came by your job that you're not telling me about?" She grins mischievously.
The best kiss of my life.
"You're getting some sick pleasure out of this which is very uncharacteristic of you, my dearest friend. That man of yours is rubbing off on you in all the wrong ways."
"What do you have against Cutter anyway? As you get to know him better, I think you'll begin to get a better understanding of who he is. He's really–"
"Let me stop you there." I throw up my hand in the formation of a stop sign. "I don't plan on understanding anything about Cutter King at all. My hope was that I wouldn't see the guy again until your wedding day or until the baby comes. Whichever comes first since you seem to keep changing your mind about when you're getting married."
"Blame Aunt Juliette. She keeps changing my mind for me."
"Guess it's all a moot point. I'm going to have to see him now. Doesn't mean that I have to like it though."
"But isn't that the real reason why you're so upset? You do like it?"
"Let's just talk about decorating my goddaughter or godson's room."
"Changing the subject on me?"
"I have a vision. Do you want to see what I have planned for the baby or not?"
She finally yields and pretends like she's zipping her lips with her fingers. Then she gets up to order us two croissants. While she's ordering I decide to pull out my pen and sketchpad. I like to make rough drawings of what I want a room to look like before I begin decorating it. Decorating rooms is just a hobby for me, but one that I take seriously if I'm going to do it right, and I can't wait to make Elizabeth's nursery a beautiful sanctuary for her and the baby.
She returns with the food and sits down. "Okay, I'm ready. Lay it on me."
"So I thought about going with a deep cherry wood crib, changing table, and dresser but selecting pure white bedding and window dressings."
"White?"
"I think the contrast will look beautiful and natural regardless of the sex of the baby. I'm going to do everything in organic or recycled fabrics and materials too. The bedding. The curtains. The flooring. It's going to look amazing and be chemical free for the baby."
"I'm sure I'll love everything you've got planned."
"You will." I smile. "And don't worry I'll make sure that you are involved in every part of the process. It will be fun for us to hang out and do this together. I feel like I haven't spent any quality time with you in eons."
"Agreed. Speaking of quality time, have you talked to Tiny lately?"
Tiny is one of our closest friends from college. She lived on our floor and is the third missing piece from our bestie trifecta.
"Not really. All the stuff going on at work has been kicking my ass lately. Last time we spoke was probably two weeks ago. I think she met a guy. I'm not sure. I was half listening and half arguing with a saleslady in the mall about a return when we were on the phone."
"Well at least she's alive and breathing. I haven't heard from her in a long time. So what's going on at work?"
"I'm sure that I've mentioned her before but there's this woman, Regan, who just won't leave me alone."
"Has she ever gone to drinks with us?"
"No, she doesn't really fraternize with coworkers. Not unless they're management. So anyway, if I didn't already know that she is strictly dickly, I would swear to you that she wants me in the biblical way. She's obsessed with me. Let me rephrase that. Obsessed with crushing me. And I can't for the life of me understand why. She's been at the company longer. Her sales territory is more established than mine. Her team makes more money than we do. And if the rumors are true, the head of our division is some old friend of her family's. So her job is secure. She'd damn near have to commit a felony to get fired. So why is she so worried about what I'm doing?"
Elizabeth sighs. "More pretty girl problems."
"What?"
"I call what you're going through pretty girl problems. You're just one of those women, Sloan. It's been like that since I've known you. It was probably that way before we met. You're gorgeous, you come from money, a famous parent, and you're good with people–especially men. Women either love you or love to hate you. They're either in awe of you or they're intimidated by you. You're a threat to that Regan person for some reason that only her psychotherapist can probably explain. It's her problem. Not yours."
"Pretty girl problems huh? Well I think my butt is way too big and it's my parents who have the money, not me, but I get what you're saying."
"Perhaps another theory is that Regan is one of those women who believes that there can only be one female at your level. I mean I'm no expert on office politics, but I imagine that some women prefer to be the only ones in the room."
"You could be right. I swear to you that my team supervisor, another woman named Fern, likes to pit the two of us against each other. She masks it as two sales teams battling it out for bragging rights and bonuses, but I think that she may possibly be trying to weed one of us out."
"That really sucks."
"Yeah, it does. You don't know how lucky you are to be an entrepreneur and not have to worry about crap like this."
"I'm not sure that it has anything to do with luck. I made a conscious decision that I w
ould work for myself when I was an undergrad because of this very thing. I hate office politics. I'd never be any good at it. You could try working for yourself too if you wanted to you know."
Elizabeth has always been a huge proponent of women starting their own businesses instead of working for the "patriarchy." I can't honestly say that I ever gave it any serious thought. I was just glad to get a job after graduation and prove to my family that I could do more than post Instagram photos."
"I can't sell Viagra independently like its Avon."
"Obviously you would do something else, Sloan."
"Eh, maybe."
I get our conversation back on track and start explaining my intentions for the nursery. I show her the sketch of a very basic floor plan, so that Elizabeth can visualize what the space will look like once I've worked my magic.
"Also I'm thinking about placing some built-in shelving here. Do you like that idea?"
She shakes her head with a mouth full of croissant. "Umm-hmm."
"You seem hungry."
"I am. This croissant isn't cutting it."
"You want real food?"
"Yep."
"Where do you want to go? It's on me."
"Maybe you could cook me a little something at your apartment?" She starts laughing hysterically. "I wonder if we'll see your new neighbor there.”
I crumple up my napkin and throw it at her forehead.
That settles it.
Pregnant women are bitches.
Sixteen
Sloan
I wouldn't describe myself as a terribly vain woman, but I definitely feel uncomfortable making sales calls with my face partially covered in medical gauze. I guess that's why for the first time ever, I feel a little unsure of myself when I press the elevator button to the office of my first appointment of the day, Dr. Aiden Clark. A man whom I've known through my work as a pharmaceutical sales rep for almost two years and one of my favorite clients.
Every time I present Dr. Clark with a new product from my company's generic brand of Viagra and why he should offer it to his patients, he gets on board. No questions asked. And while I know I do a pretty good job at selling, I'm sure my one hundred percent success rate with the good doctor has a lot to do with the fact that he's been patiently and politely asking me out for the last nine months.
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