“What?”
“Who’s this stranger who has your panties soaked right now?”
I stand, forgetting I’m not wearing my heels anymore, and I go around to the front of my desk. “Not your business.”
“Since when? Come on, I know all your sordid past details.”
“Sordid?” I laugh. “Sure. I’m about as vanilla as they come.”
“Yeah, well, you’re dying for a little kink. Hell, you need it.”
Rachel is a bit wilder than me. And by wild, I mean she likes to get tied up and spanked. And for some godforsaken reason, she thinks I need to hear about it.
I elbow her in the ribs and smile. “Can you just call Jessica and get the name of that designer for me?”
“So I’m not fired?”
“Guess not.”
“But first tell me who—” Rachel stops at the sight of dear ol’ Dad in the doorway. “Mr. King.”
She nods at my father and retreats from the office after a quick sympathy glance my way. I may be known as the Queen Bee, but Dad…well, he’s the king, and the fact that his name is King only makes him think he’s actually royalty. I’m waiting for the day when he has a red carpet installed in the hallway to his office.
He closes the door and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, and the way he eyes me suggests he’s talked to Patrick. “Did you really have to knee him in the groin? Do you know who his father is?”
I roll my eyes.
Yeah, a duke. Patrick only told me twenty times, at least.
But he’s also a Pierson.
“Well, the man still needs to take no for no.”
“I’m sure you misunderstood his intentions. I think you should give him another chance. This is a good match for you.”
Yes, sticking his tongue down my throat and trying for a second attempt after I told him no sounds super accidental.
I huff and head back to my desk. “Why would you want me dating the son of our number one competitor? Looking to steal some trade secrets?”
He doesn’t say anything.
“He couldn’t meet me until after eleven at night, and it was at some sketchy bar,” I add. “Kind of weird, right?”
“He’d just gotten in from London, and he probably didn’t want to be recognized by the media.”
“The media?” I laugh. “Does he think he’s Prince William or something?” Give me a break. “Maybe I can find my own dates from now on. Try some dating site. Millionaires.com.” I raise a brow when I look at him, and the man isn’t smiling. Not even a little bit.
“You’ll be thirty this summer. Time to start a family.”
A family? Sure.
My dad’s marriage is basically a sham. Arranged. And why shouldn’t mine be, right? Because it would be a blast to live in a loveless marriage while my husband cheats on me with a different woman every month of the year. Miss January. Miss February. A bombshell blonde for July because why not?
I don’t know how my mom did it—hell, how she still does it. Maybe she has something on the side, too? If she does, she hides it a hell of a lot better than Dad.
“Do you have anything else you want to talk about? Maybe work related? The deal with Landon Enterprises has been finalized, and I was able to buy the property for under ten million.” Hopefully I can shift his focus by talking about money. His one true love. Although twenty-year-olds with daddy issues are a close second.
“Good. And where are we on the Alexander & Sons deal?”
I shake my head. “No. I told you I’m not going to make a play for them. I’m friends with them, Dad. I sit on their charity board.”
“And you can use your friendship to get us a better deal.”
“Why are you so hell-bent on going after them?”
The Botox in his forehead is preventing him from showing any real emotion, but I can see the irritation in his eyes—his pupils expanding so large, engulfing the brown until his eyes look like frothy black jet fuel. “All that matters is that if you don’t succeed, I’ll have Cade take care of it. And he won’t be as kind to your friends.”
God, sometimes I really hate my job. We buy companies, rip them apart, and destroy lives all before an afternoon latte.
“And give Patrick another chance. That’s not a request,” he says over his shoulder before disappearing from my office.
The thought of letting Patrick anywhere near me again gives me the chills. But maybe my dad’s right. There’s a slight chance I overreacted to Patrick, but that’s a microscopic maybe.
My stomach rumbles, and I realize I’ve forgotten to eat today. I touch my core and shut my eyes. Maybe it’s not hunger pain. Maybe I’m just so sick and tired of this life that it’s making me physically ill now.
What if I’d been born into another family? You know, had a normal childhood in a little house with a fence and a dog, with parents who were home for dinner at night. Got to choose my own boyfriends. Maybe my dad could’ve been cliché and threatened my date with a shotgun at the door on prom night.
Complaining about being rich—I know, I know. But I guess the grass really is always greener on the other side. Whoever came up with that slogan was dead-on.
Maybe Rachel’s wrong—maybe the bitch in me died back in Athens last month.
3
Grace
I should’ve bought a loft with an elevator that opens right into the foyer. There are plenty of them in New York. What was I thinking when I got this place?
I drop my bag on the floor to search for my keys and glance over to see a pair of black loafers heading my way.
“You need help?”
There are two penthouses on my floor, and Evan owns the other one. The bastard is always hitting on me, even though he’s married, and it makes me sick.
As I secure my keys, he touches my elbow and helps me rise to my feet. I need to make a quick retreat.
“I’m good.” I smile at him, and he shoves his hands in his slacks pockets and angles his head.
I take note of the way he drags his gaze down my white blouse to my cream skirt, then back up again. Cheaters. Are all men lying cheats? Or just the men who have so much money they think they’re God and can have whoever they please?
I should be numb to this shit by now. I’m definitely immune to the idea that true love exists—for me, at least.
“Good night. Tell your wife, Sarah, hello.” Sarah’s actually younger than me, even though Evan is pushing forty-five.
“Mm hm,” he says while eyeing me once again. “Good night, Grace.”
He nods and turns away after a moment, and I hastily shove my key in the lock and push the door open. I drop my purse on the table, lock up, and start down the hallway.
A splash of light shines beneath the door at the end of the hall. I swear I didn’t leave anything on this morning.
I touch the knob, a slight tremble moving down my arm and to my hand as I think back to the hotel in Greece.
My stomach tightens and burns, and my pulse skates to a faster speed. I slowly twist the handle, but my mind is protesting, begging me to run. My body is stiff and my muscles taut.
Run!
I should’ve run that night in Athens. Why’d I open that door? Why am I opening this one?
I inhale a deep breath, holding it—and it’s like the air in the room cocoons me and I can’t exhale.
I’m expecting the worst. Athens, part two. Another incident.
But once the door is wide-open, I see a man crouched over a wooden beam on the floor, a tape measure in hand. The guy’s shirtless. His tanned, muscled back has a slight sheen of sweat down his spine.
He’s got to be part of the new remodel team I hired last weekend.
I bring a hand to my chest and try to calm down. To get my mind off Greece and back in New York.
“Who the hell are you?”
He’s a carpenter, right? I just want confirmation.
My hand goes inside my purse, and I search for my phone just in case I need to ca
ll the cops.
The man releases his tape measure, and it retracts and snaps, falling with a thud to the floor. He slowly lifts his hands as if he can actually see me and I have a gun on him.
He rises to his feet. “Sorry. I work for Bella. She gave me the key.” He turns toward me.
My lungs deflate as if they’ve been poked with a needle, and I’m losing oxygen fast. It’s not because of Athens.
It’s because it’s…him.
Military Guy. Unless I’m wrong about him being military.
I’m never wrong.
“You.” His brows pull together, and his hands fall to his sides.
I remove my hand from my purse and drop the bag to the floor. I’m more comfortable now that I know the shirtless guy isn’t some psychopath but in fact a construction worker.
But it’s the hot guy from the bar, which is still pretty damn bad.
“You’re Grace? I wasn’t expecting—”
“And what were you expecting?” I fold my arms and remain standing just inside the living area. He’s near the wall of windows overlooking the city on the other side of the room.
“I guess I pictured Grace as someone twice your age with a lot of cats.” A sheepish grin sweeps across his face.
I open my palms and glance to the left then right. “Do you see any cats?”
His smile deepens.
“And does my name sound old?” Maybe it does. The hyphen doesn’t help.
“Well, I don’t think that anymore. Now looking at you—Grace fits.”
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, and I don’t bother to ask. I blink and try to figure out what the hell is going on.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask instead, though I know this must be crazy stupid luck that he’s now remodeling my loft. Of the millions of people in the city…
He flashes me another quick smile, his white teeth a bright contrast to his sun-kissed skin. “No.”
“So you work with Bella? But—well, why are you here at eight at night?”
I hired Bella Designs on Saturday after I spoke with Jessica last Friday, and Bella had managed to pull together beautiful plans within a few days. She must have had people in demoing during the week, but they’d kept it clean and tidy whenever they left. Props to Bella and her crew.
Or is he the crew? The only one doing all the work? He certainly looks strong enough to be.
“I’m surprised you’d so willingly give your key to a stranger. This is New York, after all.”
I take a small step forward and hold out my hand. “Maybe I should have it back?” I cock my head, challenging him.
But Bella’s a friend of Jessica’s, and if Jessica says Bella is solid, then I trust her.
Shirtless guy, not so much.
“My sister said you wanted the job done ASAP, so I thought I’d put in some extra hours. I didn’t think you were living here during the renovations.”
“Sister? Bella’s your sister?” I didn’t see that one coming. They don’t look anything alike. He’s tall, crazy fit, with brownish-black hair and stunning deep blue eyes. His sister is five feet on a good day and a redhead.
“Yeah, she’s my sister.”
How is this happening? I’ve taken fantasizing to a whole new level this past week, and all my dirty thoughts have included this man now standing before me—because thinking about him is far better than remembering Greece.
And feeling scared and alone at night.
But I was never supposed to see him again. Dammit.
I steal a quick glimpse of the V starting above the top of his jeans. His body is carved in a way that can’t be from only lifting weights. It’s not bulky. It’s, well…I don’t have any word for it other than perfect.
There’s a tattoo—or more like a collection of inked symbols near his left shoulder.
I clear my throat when he pats his hands on his jeans, wiping wood dust or dirt, whatever it may be, onto the faded denim. He’s in front of me now, less than a foot away, and I can smell him. Pine, sweat, clean linen—it’s not what I’m used to, and it’s refreshing.
“I’m Noah.” He extends his hand.
I look down at the strong forearm and slowly press my palm against his. He tightens his grip a little as he shakes my hand, then he lets go, and I turn away almost immediately and press my fingertips to the nape of my neck. My hair is in a bun at the back of my head, and it feels tight all of a sudden. I want to shake the mass free, but then he’d think I’m either practicing for an audition for a shampoo commercial or flirting.
“I appreciate your late hours, but maybe next time I could get some sort of warning that you’ll be here.” I face him again.
His eyes find mine, and I swallow. “Will do, ma’am. Should I go?”
“Um. Probably.” I need to shower, and I’m not about to do that with him here.
He nods and goes to my couch, where he grabs a gray tee that’s tossed over the back, and I can’t help myself but watch, noting how his back muscles flex as he pulls on the shirt.
“How long have you been living here?” As he picks up the tape measure off the floor, my eyes trail along his backside.
When he faces me again, I feel heat in my cheeks as if he knows I’m guilty of having checked him out. He even cracks another smile.
Since when do I get embarrassed?
“Why do you ask?”
He approaches me again, which isn’t a good idea because my reaction to his proximity is to take awkward steps away from him. What the hell is wrong with me?
He halts when I take my third backward step. “There aren’t pictures on the walls or basically any signs of life here.”
I look around the place. I saw potential when I bought it, but it’s very nineties, with gold and brass everywhere. It at least has the wide, open-concept feel, but it needs some fresh white cabinets and some charm. “Well, that’s why I hired your sister.”
“Yeah, but I mean—the place is empty minus a few pieces of furniture.”
“I have stuff crammed into the closets over there,” I say, pointing toward the hall. “I moved in a year ago, but I work a lot. And I never eat at home, so…”
“Not even breakfast?”
I shake my head and regain some sense of brain functionality. “Wait, why am I explaining myself to you? It’s late. You should get home.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” He winks and walks past me, brushing against my shoulder, and I know he does it on purpose.
I can’t help myself—I need to know if I’m right, so I ask, “Are you military?”
He pauses but doesn’t turn around. “I was.”
“And you’re not from New York, are you?”
There’s a hint of Southern that drifts from his speech, but it’s like a quick kiss caressing his words, rather than a deep love affair.
He faces me and smiles. “No, I’m definitely not from here.”
I nod. “Okay.” For some peculiar reason, I want to ask more, to know more about this man, but I stop myself. “So will you be here tomorrow?”
“Is that a problem?” He raises a brow.
“I have a date.” I look at the semi-dirty hardwoods. “I don’t know when I’ll be home. But probably not too late. You can work until nine if you want. Anything to get the job done faster, I suppose.”
I’m dreading the possibility of getting groped tomorrow for a second time by Sir Patrick, or whatever ridiculous name he goes by. I bet he has women call him Lord while they screw. Probably into the whole dominant-submissive thing. If I didn’t hate the guy, I’d set him up with Rachel.
“The guy from the bar last week? He your boyfriend?”
So, Noah did pay attention to me even after he left me alone, huh?
When I look up, he’s right in front of me, and I fight the urge to inhale, to breathe him in. “Mm. I think that’s not your business.”
But part of me wants to tell him no. Actually, I want to scream the word, then ask him to take me into the bedroom a
nd screw me until the sun comes up. But that’s not the kind of thing a woman like me is supposed to think, let alone do. At least not with the guy who’s fixing up my loft. Screwing the married man next door would be more acceptable in my social circle.
I need to look away, but I can’t. His lips part, and I want to touch the stubble on his firm jaw or push away the dark lock that has fallen across his forehead. His hair is tapered on the sides, and a little longer on top—definitely not the quintessential military cut. I wonder how long he’s been out of the military.
“Good night, Miss Par—”
“You can call me Grace.” I don’t want to hear my mouthful of a last name from him. I don’t want to be that person to him. I’m not sure why, but I don’t.
He nods. “Well, good night then, Grace.”
Once I hear the front door close, I rush down the hall and bolt the locks, plus the new one I had installed last month. I only use that one when I’m home. I lean my back against the door and lower my head, trying to reel in my insanity.
It’s been too long since I’ve had amazing sex. You know, sex with a guy who actually cares if I get off, and he’s not just in it for himself. That has to be why I’m having such a strange, below-the-belly reaction to this man.
Most men I date are like racehorses. Quick in bed, always galloping toward the finish line, and to top it off, they aren’t even Kentucky Derby one-hit wonders. They never get the G-spot, and they don’t even try. Users. They take and don’t give.
But Noah—that man looks like he gives…and a lot.
When I make my way back into the living room, I can still smell his cologne. Although I doubt he was wearing any. I think that’s just him. All natural.
I suck in a deep breath and hold on to my desire for one more moment, knowing it can’t last. One moment is all I can have. The need to feel something deep, or even enjoyable, is off-limits for me.
4
Noah
New York City. Truly the city that never sleeps.
I breeze past couples lingering on the streets outside bars. I take in the city lights that glow around me like some giant orb. And I give away the few bucks I have to some of the homeless I see as I walk.
Someone Like You Page 3
