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Chapter Thirteen
RORY
Cold wind whips through my hair as I stumble away from the cab with my boxes in my arms and Mischief’s leash around my wrist. I’ve always seen this building from afar, never even considering that I might get to live inside of it.
The exterior is made of glass, just like their business is, and the modern architecture gives the structure a new age feeling. I shiver with excitement and a little bit of nervousness as I realize that I actually get to go inside.
I can’t imagine what I look like as I make my way to the doors, tripping over my heels, wearing a crusted white shirt, holding torn up boxes, and walking with a pit bull at my side. But they don’t fucking open.
Grumbling, I see that I need a keycard to get in, but the fuckers never gave me one. Dropping my boxes next to my feet, I knock on the glass, not caring that I’m leaving fingerprints. It’s just the first of many scuffs someone like me will leave on a place like this, and it gives me a strange sense of satisfaction to see them.
I’m leaving my mark on Dixen Enterprises in more ways than one.
A scowling doorman finally makes his way over to me, looking me over as if I’m yesterday’s old bologna sandwich. “May I help you?” he asks with disdain, sneering down his fat nose at me.
“Yeah. I live here.” I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, flipping through until I find the text from Rogan. “Rogan said it was floor forty?” I turn the phone around so the doorman can verify what I’m saying. His eyes go wide, and a knowing look crosses his face.
“Oh, of course. Ms. O’Brien is it? We’ve been expecting you. Right this way.” I want to roll my eyes at his attitude change, but instead, I decide on a smug grin. His eyes rove over me, stopping at my dog as he frowns. “We don’t usually allow dogs—”
“Well deal with it, because an exception has been made,” I interrupt, picking up my boxes and tossing them into his arms before pushing past him to get inside. “Whoa,” I exclaim as I look around. Everything in here gleams. White tiled flooring extends across the entire entrance. Off to my left is a seating area and coffee station where well-dressed men and women are reading newspapers and watching the local news station on one of the large TVs. On the right is the mailbox area, where rows upon rows of lock boxes await their owners.
Recessed lighting illuminates the entrance in a white glow. There’s even a huge chandelier hanging over the marble countertop in front of the concierge service station, which is perched just before a bank of elevators.
“Of course,” the doorman agrees, seeming to remember himself as he bustles up behind me, the fabric of his pants swishing as he moves. “Right this way.”
I’m guided to the elevators with Mischief trotting happily beside me, his nails clicking on the floor. Gold filigree tops the elevator doors, and an old dial sits inside of it. I watch as the hand moves from floor twenty down to us, then the elevator dings before its doors slide open.
“After you.” The doorman, whose name tag says he goes by Meryl, gestures for me to get inside, so I enter, and he follows behind me. He swipes another key card then depresses the button labeled “PH.”
Penthouse…
Well, damn.
Meryl drops my boxes, and though he pretends to be very interested in the elevator buttons, I see him glaring at me through the corners of his beady eyes. The little doorman’s hat is stuffed onto his head, and tufts of gray hair hang down past his ears. A rather large belly tests the strength of the gold buttons holding his jacket together, and his chubby, red cheeks puff out as if he was a fucking chipmunk hoarding his winter haul.
He annoys me.
So I blatantly stare back, hoping I’m making the fucker uncomfortable. Fuck Meryl and his stupid fucking hat, his white gloves, and his entitled attitude.
The ride up to the top floor feels like it takes a hundred years, and when the doors finally slide open, I can’t hurry out fast enough. Meryl scuttles in front of me, doing a surprisingly well-balanced spin as he pauses in front of a door with no number before setting my boxes down. “This way, Ms. O’Brien.” He pulls an envelope off the door and hands it to me, then he extends his gloved hand as if expecting a tip.
A fucking tip!
Is he for real right now?
Ignoring Meryl, I tear open the envelope and find a single keycard inside. Even the fucking keycard is fancy, with gold scrollwork on it. I press it against the little doohickey on the side of the door and hear it beep as it unlocks.
Smiling, I grab the handle and push it open, then Meryl clears his throat behind me. “Go on, Mischief,” I coo, opening the door farther to allow him entrance before bending low to scoop up my boxes. Meryl flutters his fingers, trying to draw my attention to his empty palm. I glare at him, head cocked to the side. “Suck a dick, Meryl.” I slam the door in his face.
I can hear him grumbling and can’t help the laugh that escapes me as I rest my back against the door and finally relax a little. But then I see what’s before me and my anxiety ramps right back up.
This place? It’s immaculate.
The shining white marble floors with gray sparkling veins running through them gleam. High walls reach up to what must be at least twenty-foot ceilings. The entire place is open. Across from me is a wall of windows overlooking the city. On my right is a wall with two doors, and to my left is an enormous kitchen.
“Wow,” I mutter to myself as I drop my boxes and stroll over to it, running my fingers down the smooth countertops. Tall white cabinets with crystal handles hang from the wall, surrounding a stove with six burners.
Six!
