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When the elevator arrives, it’s crammed. So, I wait for the next one. It’s not like I’ve got to rush upstairs for anything, after all. My cupboards are spartan, and my fridge is worse. The only thing ingestible in the whole place is the protein powder I take after my morning workout and a bottle of cognac my brother gave me for Christmas.
Not exactly the ingredients for an enticing dinner.
When I reach my floor, I step into the hallway and approach my apartment with an increasing sense of dread. This is ridiculous. It’s the same damn place I come home to every night. But now it’s ominous, like something I’ve built up to mammoth proportions. A representation of how little my life contains.
“Hello?”
A voice startles me and I turn, my gaze swinging across the empty hallway. There’s not a soul around. Great. Now on top of this unwanted and unappreciated trip down “existential crisis” lane, I’m losing my mind, too. Francis is going to pay for this tomorrow.
“Is someone there?” A loud thump draws my eyes to the service stairwell. “Hello? I need help.”
The voice is definitely female, but I don’t recognise it. I pull on the door. It’s locked. That’s when I notice an electronic keypad flashing:Error. Enter code.
“The door is locked,” I say.
“No shit,” the voice snaps. “Why else would I be in here?”
“Self-reflection?” The comeback slips out before I can think better of it.
“You’re a regular smartass, aren’t you?”
I’m tempted to leave the woman in the stairwell. It’s not my problem and I’ve had enough abuse for one day. But the second I start to walk away, my conscience kicks in and I almost growl in frustration. I can’t leave a person stranded.
“Hello?” she tries again.
“I’m still here.”
“Look, buddy. I’ve had the day from hell and all I want is to get into my apartment so I can faceplant in a tub of ice cream and eat my emotions. Think you can help me out?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Tryreallyhard.”
Shaking my head, I bend down to look more closely at the keypad. It has a thin layer of plastic covering it and I notice some dust and paint shavings on the floor. Then everything clicks into place—I’d bet my last ten bucks they installed these things today and blew a fuse while testing them out. That probably tripped the security system and shut the elevators down.
Which could mean... I punch 1234 into the electronic pad and the screen flashes once, twice and then displays the word:open. Yep, they haven’t set up the passcodes yet.
I yank the door open. For a moment, my brain stutters like a lawnmower failing to start. The woman in the stairwell looks like she’s stepped out of my wildest, dirtiest fantasies—endless legs in fishnet stockings, waist-length hair that’s so pale it’s almost white, and a leather miniskirt and lace-up boots. Not to mention the black eyeliner that rims her eyes, making the silvery-blue irises seem otherworldly.
Looking at her is like being shocked with jumper cables.
I have definitelynotseen her around before. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I was with someone. Every woman I’ve dated has been a strategic decision, because I don’t waste time with short-term flings and one-night stands. I only do what gets me closer to my goals—and casual sex doesn’t.
But work has taken over everything. My personal life is a husk and...well, I’ve been flying solo in the bedroom for a while. My sex life is a wasteland. A ghost town. And this is the first sign of life I’ve felt in over a year. Sensation rockets through me, blanking out the worries that usually clog my mind and filling me with a strong, pleasurable hum. Maybe denying myself for so long wasn’t a smart move—because I’m feeling like a man crawling through the desert, with water shimmering on the horizon.
I hold the door open for her, tamping down the uncharacteristic surge of attraction. “You’re welcome,” I quip.
“I didn’t say thank you,” she replies, a wicked curve pulling at her lips. “Yet.”
CHAPTER THREE
Drew
IDUSTMYSELFoff and roll my shoulders back, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. These boots werenotmade for climbing four flights of stairs. Mr. Suit is watching my every move like his life depends on it—though I don’t mind. He’s gorgeous. If I had to make a quick guess I’d say mid-thirties, a lawyer/banker/insert mind-numbing profession here. But his suit fits like a dream, nipping in a trim waist and accenting broad shoulders. He might be desk-bound, but he works out. His eyes are the colour of the sky and his hair has an attractive reddish sheen to it, with warm-toned stubble on his sharp jaw to match.
Who would have known I’d be hot for a ginger?
“Were you stuck in there long?” He steps back so I can escape the concrete column of doom.
