Page 561 of Manhattan Bossholes

4

CAMERON

My ears were still ringing from the show as I strode into my building.

“Evening, Mr. O’Connor,” Carl said with a head tip as he opened the door for me.

“Carl, when are you going to stop calling me ‘mister’?” I groused at him, only half-serious. “Do I have to start docking your pay or something?”

His face went white. “Oh, no Mr.—I mean, Cameron, I uh, you don’t have to do that…”

I came to a stop in front of him. I hated that Carl was still nervous around me, despite the fact that he’d been opening the door for me every day since I bought the building two years prior.

“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m kidding.”

“It’s just that the former owner⁠—”

“Randall Fitzgerald,” I said, trying not to frown at the memory of my father’s old golfing buddy. The two men were cut from the same cloth, and it had been particularly satisfying to take the special building out of his portfolio. Fitzgerald had dozens of properties he ignored. I wasn’t that sort of owner.

Carl nodded. “Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald. He insisted we never use his first name. I just figured you’d want⁠—”

“Trust me, I’m not like him,” I replied quickly.

“Okay…Cameron. I’ll do my best. From now on.”

I clapped him on the shoulder, then headed for the elevators, wondering if the hearing in my left ear was going to come back eventually.

I loved watching Tyler perform, but I preferred his unplugged solo sets—and not just for the sake of my hearing. The guys he’d hooked up with for tonight’s gig were decent musicians, but they didn’t gel as a true band. As usual, Tyler outshined them all. He was still too damaged to admit he was in a different league from anyone else in the bar circuit, which was part of his problem. Until he believed in himself again, he’d just keep treading water and feeling bad about it.

And worse, drinking away his sorrows.

The reminder of Tyler’s struggles, the asshole tendencies of my father and his friends, the Veritique crisis, and my throbbing head all made for the perfect storm of a trash mood. I was worn to the bone. Of course, my phone sounded off with a Google alert right as I got on the elevator, as if I needed one more thing to deal with.

I’d set them for any reporting about Veritique, and seeing as it was after midnight, it could only be bad news. What now?

“Oh my god, are you stalking me tonight?” a voice rang out from behind me. “First The Sty and now in my own home?”

I turned around to see her, the annoyingly gorgeous woman I couldn’t seem to avoid, whether on my sidewalk or in my office. And how did she know I was coming from The Sty?

“Excuse me, Miss Rhodes? You’re in my building. You’re the one who seems to keep popping up everywhere I go.”

I scanned her slowly as the door closed behind me, pausing on her Converse sneakers. She was dressed for a bodega run, but she still looked fucking breathtaking. I was close enough to her that I could see a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, so stupidly adorable that they looked painted on. And her mouth. Frowning, of course frowning, but pouty. Kissable. The sweetness of her face was contradicted by her thin t-shirt and holy jeans, which promised a lush body beneath.

“What?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

I wanted to kick myself for being so obvious about checking her out.

I cleared my throat and grabbed for something to say to cover up for my lapse. “It’s not like someone who dresses like that could afford this place. So why are you following me? Changed your mind and decided you want to beg me for the job, hmm?”

“What?” Her eyes went wide with fury. “Now hold on a minute, I live here!”

A loud thumping noise interrupted what was probably going to be another tirade, and the elevator jerked to a stop. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall.

“Shit.”

“Shit!” she echoed, sounding more nervous than angry with just the single word.

Central Park Tower was a flagship structure with a rich history, but in New York that also meant old building problems. It didn’t matter how expensive the place was, an old elevator meant unpredictability. Brian, the building manager, had the Otis Elevator techs on speed dial.