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I wondered what she looked like when she smiled.
Scratch that. I wondered if she ever smiled.
The woman might’ve actually popped out of the womb with a briefcase in her hand and a memo in her inbox.
She’d held eye contact longer than most managed, but I wasn’t about to give up the silent game of eye contact chicken, either. Every proper conversation was a negotiation, and a negotiation had a winner and a loser. The first step to winning the game every time was taking any advantage you could get. That’s why I was so damn good at it.
I held her gaze and gave a small shrug. “There’s no reason we can’t resolve this. What do you say I grease your wheels a bit? What makes you smile? Rare wine? Priceless artwork? Or maybe just a big, fat, check?” I wasn’t actually planning to buy her out at this point, but I was curious to see how she’d react to the offer of a bribe.
I didn’t even see her move before the door slammed in my face. A little puff of wind lifted one of my perfectly placed hairs. It hung in the air, then flopped down right along with my hopes for a peaceful resolution to the problem.
This woman seemed completely immune to my charms. Very strange. Suspicious, even.
But then again, what fun was there in peaceful resolutions? I smiled, then headed back for the elevator with a spring in my step.
2
ELIZABETH
I slammed the door shut on my obnoxious upstairs neighbor and went back to my office. The thermometer was still sitting by my laptop along with a pile of used tissues. I checked and confirmed my temperature was still elevated. Ugh.
Four years ago, I joined K.M. Glass Design Studios. Mrs. Glass was seventy-two, a raging badass, and her small fashion studio had grown into an international magazine backed by a clothing line. I joined her company as an intern in the mail room when I was twenty-two and fresh out of college. One year later, I was getting paid to make coffee runs for the photographers and then the models. A year after that, I was working with the marketing department to help expand the magazine’s reach. Six months ago, I earned a position as Mrs. Glass’ right-hand-woman, and I also earned one of the first proud smiles I’d ever seen from my mother.
Things were moving upward, and all it had cost me was everything. I looked around my bleak apartment. It was so bare that calling it Spartan would’ve been giving it too much credit. I spent my life at work, and now a fever had me stuck working at home. I could already imagine how Rand was licking his lips at the opportunity to weasel into Mrs. Glass’ good graces with me out of the office. He probably thought he could secure his place as her successor.
Mrs. Glass had been making a big deal of needing to find the perfect person to take over her empire when she gave it all up “any day now.” It meant everybody with a shred of ambition was in a bloodthirsty race to be named her successor, and before this fever, I’d been the clear frontrunner.
Some nights, I couldn’t even sleep when I thought about the possibility of taking over the company. I imagined how much I would change—how satisfying it would be to see my ideas take shape and turn the already powerful company into a perfectly oiled machine. And then I imagined seeing the look on my mother’s face when she realized I’d actually done it.
I sighed, then blew my nose and tossed the tissue.
I needed to either get back to work as soon as I could, or make sure I impressed long distance.
I rubbed my temples and used a mindfulness technique to push the pain down to manageable levels. Just as I lifted my fingers to the keyboard, something clattered upstairs. I lowered my hands, glaring at my screen. I heard a man laughing hard, then scrabbling claws and thumps. Something squawked, and then there was a thump followed by another clatter.
What in the ever-living hell was he doing up there?
I had a peaceful music track playing. I jacked up the volume, focusing on the sounds of nature and the distant bird calls. Calm. Just stay calm, Elizabeth. Then I heard what sounded like the man upstairs running around his apartment while shouting nonsense.
I got up, slammed the mute button on my keyboard, and wrapped a scarf around my neck. Anger and frustration broiled in my chest until my skin felt hot. It was almost worse now that I knew what my upstairs neighbor looked like. He was exactly the sort of man that expected the world to bend and indulge his every whim. Him and that stupidly perfect, floppy hair. The cloudless sky bedroom eyes and obnoxious, soft lips framed by a few days’ stubble. And he even had the nerve to be dressed well while making more noise than an entire frat house all on his own.
