by Vivien Vale
But I’ve got my advance check in hand and a plan in my head.
Get to the bank. Open an account.
Call a locksmith. Get my truck unlocked.
Check into a hotel for a day or two, then get an apartment here. Doesn’t have to be nice, just needs to be livable. I don’t even care if there’s a cockroach or two—even if the thought of just one cockroach makes my skin crawl, anyway.
But outside the building, the wind blasts me in the face so hard it yanks my hair out of the ponytail I’ve pulled it into. The city breeze smells like pizza and urine and wet garbage, and as it smacks me in the face with my own chestnut brown locks, it snatches my advance check right out from between my fingers.
Shoot. No!
The thin piece of paper flies and flips through the air like a feather. Everything about my future, from tonight’s dinner to my first home in the city, is being literally carried away on the breeze.
There are so many people on the sidewalk, walking quickly, aggressively, and completely uncaring about my entire future floating chaotically over the sidewalk. It’s getting away from me fast, and it’s fluttering way in front of me, going in and out of view.
There’s a wall of people ahead of me, blocking me from my future. Screw it, I can’t afford to be nice right now.
First, I throw my arms up in the air—not in frustration, but in preparation for my next move. Next, I swing my arms down. Look, I’m being careful that I don’t hit anyone, but I need to create a no-go zone in front of me, which’ll help me make a clear path so I can see where I’m headed.
Okay, this is probably not the best way to go about it. But I cannot let my future get away.
With my arms-extended force field in front of me, I start on a healthy trot down the sidewalk. After trotting for half a block, I still don’t see that darn check—which means it’s time for the trot to turn into a gallop.
Galloping at a healthy clip, people seem to have a natural understanding to move out of my path. This city doesn’t smell great, and it’s crowded, but everyone appears to have some sort of psychic ability to stay out of each other’s way.
And there’s my future!
My check is flitting around in the heartless wind, a few inches off the curb and above the stupid street.
And it’s landing. My future is landing on the ground.
Finally.
Forget trotting, or galloping, or holding my arms out in front of me in a makeshift force field, it’s time to sprint at a speed that would make Bolt look slow. The check’s landing in the street, but close enough to the sidewalk that I can just run and grab it.
Paying no mind to whatever’s in front of me, I dash down the block and straight into the street.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady! What’re ya, crazy?”
By the time I hear the voice yelling, I don’t even know where it’s coming from anymore. Possibly from that man on the bicycle with the giant messenger bag slung across his back. He’s already speeding away—where could he be off to in such a hurry?
Never mind that, my future has finally landed…
In a puddle.
And it hasn’t even been raining recently. What’s up with that? My check’s now sitting in a gross, dirty puddle just off the curb.
Another messenger bag-equipped man on a bicycle swerves around me as I bend over to inspect the damage. The check is floating face up on the surface of the puddle—my name, the amount, and the bank account numbers are all still intact. All I need to do to save my future is reach down to claim my check from the disgusting, muddy abyss.
With a deep breath, and without thinking too hard about it, I scoop up the check with my fingers and immediately, instinctually begin shaking it off. I don’t want to speak too soon, but it doesn’t seem that bad—I might still be able to endorse it.
For now, I just fold it and put it in my purse. That’s enough adventure for this month.
Enough unpleasant adventure, at least.
Thanks to the surprisingly not-that-soggy check now in my purse, a more fun adventure is within my reach.
All I need to do is get to the bank, pronto.
The banks here are open pretty late, right? My thoughts drift to my truck.
It could probably be considered a bad habit at this point, but I’m still attached to my truck. It feels like I abandoned it on a cold, apathetic New York street.
Poor thing.
The bank could take a while with a deposit this size. My truck has already been sitting alone for so long, I should check on it at least.
Then I’ll go to the bank.
Although I’ve ventured about a block away in pursuit of my errant future, my truck is still sitting there, in my sight, the moment I turn around.
Darn, I have to stop myself from running to it.
Acting cool, hard and aloof like all of these other people, I stride to my prized possession as casual as I please.
Or as casually as I can.
Naturally, the windshield is already festooned with parking tickets. I’ll look at those after my financial future is secure—within the next hour, if all goes as planned.
Now, all I need to do is get the driver’s side door open. That shouldn’t be a problem, all I need is a wedge or a steel rod of some kind. You’d think that in this city, you’d see that type of garbage lying around everywhere.
Gosh darn it, despite scanning the sidewalk intensely on my way to the car, I’m not seeing any appropriate tools. When I reach the door, my only move is to grab the handle and give it a good tug.
The door stays closed. Because it’s locked.
Duh.
There’s no explaining why, but I try again with another vigorous tug. Of course the frigging door stays closed—why wouldn’t it?
All I can do now is stand in the street and sigh. Maybe I’m turning into a city woman already.
“You’re not trying to break into that pickup, are you?”
It takes me a second to place the voice behind me.
I know I heard it somewhere recently. Very recently.
Oh. Once again: duh.
“Mr. Abraham…Carter,” I greet my new boss while spinning around.
He’s just standing in the middle of the street like traffic doesn’t exist.
And he’s smiling.
Man, that smile is distracting. For a moment, I forget that traffic exists myself.
And that scent. I don’t know if it’s aftershave or what, but for a brief, shining second, it neutralizes the smell of urine, cheap pizza and trash that fills the city air.
Wait. Is he following me?
“Did I forget something, Carter? Or…did you have more questions or something?”
“That was my next question. Why are you trying to get into that pickup truck? Are you okay?”
“Oh.” My cheeks flush mildly, but I have nothing to be ashamed of. “This is my truck. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I locked the keys inside.”
“You drove this here?”
“Well, I didn’t push it. How else would I get it here?”
Carter laughs, looking genuinely caught off-guard. “Did you drive in from the suburbs somewhere, or…” Carter’s eyes scan me up and down once again, a slow realization dawning as he does. “Where did you drive from? And where have you been sleeping?”
Carter just manages to step out of the way of a speeding taxi. His calm demeanor does not waver.
“And why don’t we talk on the sidewalk?” Carter asks. Okay, so maybe he’s not completely fearless.
We squeeze around the front of my truck, and Carter gives a good, hard look at my parking ticket-infested windshield along the way. He may be looking inside the truck’s cabin, as well.
“Where are you staying?” Carter asks the second we’re on the sidewalk.
It feels like too personal a question at first. I’ve never been asked anything like that during or after a job interview.
But I understand that this is no normal job.
/>
“I’m off to find an apartment right now…or, tonight, anyway.” That’s my sidestepping answer. I haven’t signed the contract yet, and Carter doesn’t need to know everything.
“Where?” Er, good question. “Do you have an appointment with a broker?”
“No.” All I can do is answer honestly…and look down at the sidewalk.
“At this time of year, June, the waiting list for any livable apartment can be weeks long. Or months, realistically.”
What’s Carter’s idea of livable, anyway? It’s not like I’m some sort of snob.
But, cockroaches.
Shudder.
He may have a point.
“I need to get to the bank to deposit this check.” There, that should get him off my back, at least.
“All the banks are closed by now, June. Where are you staying?”
If the banks really are closed, and I can’t even get a hotel room, then the only answer I have is in my truck.
Heck, I’m used to it, and I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. If only I could figure out a way to get that stupid door open.
“I’ve got plenty of room at my place, June. You can’t sleep in your pickup.”
“No, thanks.”
There. I don’t need to explain myself, so I don’t.
“June, don’t be ridiculous. Come on, I’ve got an incredible penthouse with tons of spare room. Beats sleeping in a truck, I promise.”
I shake my head once more, but barely. I don’t know what to say.
Chapter 7
Carter
“And there you have it,” I say, holding my arms out and welcoming June to everything my penthouse has to offer. “Home sweet home.”
“It looks like a set from a movie,” June breathes, staring wide-eyed as she takes it all in. “You actually live here?”
I shrug. “I spend a lot of my time at the office.”
I can see June’s shoulders slump forward, as if being here in my apartment makes her physically uncomfortable.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
Her cheeks go pink as she shakes her head. “No, not exactly. It’s just…” She looks up at me, biting her lower lip. “I’m afraid I’m going to mess this place up just by being here.”
I can’t help it. She’s so fucking cute when she looks all anxious like this. I can’t even imagine a place in the world that wouldn’t be improved by her presence.
But I don’t tell her that.
Instead, I put my hand around her waist and usher her in, relishing the way the flare of her hip feels beneath my fingers.
“I’ve got an excellent housekeeper,” I assure her. “Relax.”
My words seem to have little impact on her. In fact, I feel as if the news of a housekeeper makes her only tenser. Her upper body seems stiffer than before, and she seems terribly reluctant to move.
She leaves her shoes by the door. I watch her cross the large living space carefully, on tiptoes. She actually stops halfway and performs a couple of pirouettes.
She spins and spins and spins until she stops again and looks around.
“Look at all the space you’ve got.” She waves her arms around. “You could fit an entire herd of cows in here.”
I grimace. A cow in my apartment—an absurd notion, but her smile warms my heart. It’s the first time I’ve known a woman to do this to me.
Okay, it’s the first time in a long time I’ve known a woman to have this effect on me at all.
Usually, I don’t care for all the crap women go on with—the charm they put on, the blinking of the eyes and the forced smile.
But it turns out June is nothing like the other women I’m used to.
I’m beginning to learn real fucking fast—June is June.
June is definitely hard working, and smart, but a little too headstrong. She needs a bit of work.
“Ahem,” I clear my throat and take my eyes off her ass.
It’s the cutest ass I’ve ever seen on a woman.
June turns toward me. She’s breathing a little harder, a little worn out from her spinning. “I don’t think I can sit down anywhere unless you have a crate or something,” she starts and her eyes scan the room. “Are those real, or is it a work of art?”
My gaze follows her finger. She’s pointing at my state-of-the-art suspended staircase. It goes up straight, has a landing, turns and then goes up straight again.
“They’re actually stairs to the upper level,” I explain. I hesitate for a moment before continuing. “That’s where the bedrooms are.”
Her eyes widen. She looks good enough to eat. I need to use every ounce of self-control to stop myself going over to her, grabbing her, and taking her up those stairs so we can fuck.
Patience.
Self-control.
Timing.
I can’t fuck her now. She’s hasn’t signed the contract.
Heck, so far, she’s only agreed to think about it. And that was how long ago? I glance at my watch. About five hours ago, she agreed to think about.
It occurs to me she has not said how long she needs to think about it. Should I press her now? Should I demand an answer immediately?
My instincts advise against it. Generally, my instincts are never wrong. Sure, there’s been the occasional times my instinct has led me astray...but I don’t dwell on those.
When you’re as successful as me, one bad decision is hardly worth dwelling on.
Like anyone else, I’ve got skeletons in the closest, but I don’t care to go there right now. It’s shut—and I prefer to keep it that way.
“Can I see?” June’s voice brings my attention back to the here and now.
“See what?” I ask. I’ve lost track of what we were talking about.
Her right hand points upwards. “The upstairs.”
Is it her cheeks turning that gorgeous shade of pink that make her look even more delicious?
I take a step closer. Yep, that’s part of it.
“Sure,” I hesitate. “I guess you don’t have...” I trail off.
It’s obvious she hasn’t got a fucking thing.
There are no open shops nearby so I’ll have to think of some emergency plan. Since I never entertain women in my penthouse, I don’t have any spare clothing for her.
I sigh.
“Let’s go,” I invite her to head up before me.
She grins.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” she says, staying where she is. “You go first—I don’t need you checking me out as I climb the stairs in my skirt.”
Hearing her words makes my bottom jaw drop. She really is something else. What a cheeky fucking thing to say.
There’s nothing backwards about June Johnson from the country.
“I don’t know what the guys in your neck of the woods get up to, but here we have better manners than to...”
What’s the use? I can tell she’s not going to move.
Swearing under my breath, I walk up the stairs ahead of her.
As I pass her, our hands touch ever so slightly. I notice her pull her hand away quickly and rub the spot where we touched. Her cheeks redden even more.
My own hand is reveling in the feel of her soft, smooth skin. I try and think of a reason to do that again, but I draw a blank.
“Now don’t you perve on my ass,” I say as my parting shot.
June laughs.
Again, a strange sensation envelops me. Is it joy, happiness, or something different altogether? Whatever it is, the feeling is a new experience for me.
No. No. No.
There’s no fucking way I’m going to be lead into temptation. I won’t fall for the trap. Until we’ve got a baby contract, I’m not taking any chances.
I know that the minute I put my fucking cock into her pussy, she’s going to fall pregnant. It’s a gut feeling, but it’s one I know to be two fucking hundred percent correct.
There is no way I’m giving in.
When June joins me upstairs, I can see how tired s
he looks.
A tiny spark of guilt creeps in—there’s no doubt I’ve contributed to that weary look. Maybe if I hadn’t worked her so hard, then...
I stop myself from going further down that road. Another useless train of thought—the goddamn concept of if.
She stands so close, I can feel her warm breath on my neck. Goosebumps crawl down my back. My cock’s threatening to take over and send my brain on an extended vacation.
Again.
There’s trying times ahead.
“There are three bedrooms up here,” I start and turn right. If I don’t put some distance between us, I might just jump on her, here and now. “There’s one down here. And the other two are at the other end.”
June is rooted to the spot.
“Where will I sleep?”
Worry, concern, and maybe a hint of anxiety are reflected in her face.
“Don’t worry, you’ve got your own room for the night. It’s down the other end.”
I watch her nod slowly. For some reason, she’s still not moving. Her eyes shift from my face down her own body.
“Yes,” I say, scratching my head. I think I know what she’s thinking. “I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear for the night.”
My hand plays with her collar, pretending to smooth it out. When she flinches a little, I drop it.
If I thought she was going to be overjoyed and shower me with gratitude, I’m wrong. There are no arms being flung around my body, nor is she showering me with kisses. Instead, I think I can see a tiny tear trickle down her cheek.
Without another word, I head into my room and grab a shirt.
Still wordless, I hand it to her.
“This way.”
She follows me in silence.
“Are you hungry? There’s a resident cook. I can order us anything. Steak, pie, fried chicken...you name your poison, and I’ll get it for you.”
June shakes her head.
I open the door to her room and watch her walk in. Once she’s inside, she stops and turns back toward me.
“I’m not hungry,” she says, and I notice her eyes taking in every bit of detail. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
Being the sensitive, smart kind of guy I am, I get the hint.
