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“Thank you.” My voice comes out hoarser than usual.
Gio nods and picks up his phone, so I jump in quickly. “Perhaps I can tell you about a project—”
“Don’t push it, London,” he growls.
Got it.
We finish our meal in silence, but this time I don’t mind it. While he works, I make a mental list of things to finish today. The gala is in a few weeks, so the list is long. I have two wonderful assistants, but this is still the busiest season for me.
Before we wrap up, I identify one more target. Gilbert Sutton is the heir to a global food conglomerate, and we’ve never been introduced. I consider my options while Gio signs the bill.
“Let me introduce you to Sutton,” Gio says when we stand up.
“How did you—”
“Seriously, Lo, I might be distracted, but I’m not completely absent-minded.” He gives me a disapproving look, like he hasn’t just spent an hour staring into his phone.
I bite my tongue. The Suttons have never come to my fundraiser and if I can do anything well, it’s keeping my eyes on the prize.
By the time I leave the club, I have commitments for two more tables, which makes me cautiously optimistic. I call my assistant, Ashley, to ensure she follows up and closes those ticket sales.
One goes for ten thousand dollars and provides enough funds to support several long-term research efforts and my staff. Not enough, though. It’s never enough.
Two months ago, the lead researcher on a project at Stanford University presented an encouraging theory. If the drug works, it would revolutionize the treatment of leukemia. It would take years to prove the concept and run all the testing before the clinical trials on people can start, but it would be the first significant improvement in decades.
Unfortunately, they ran out of state funding and private partnerships are hard to come by, unless you want to be married to the pharmaceutical industry. Instead of steady progress, they have encountered hurdle after hurdle. I’ve only managed to drum up moderate support commitments over the past eight weeks.
The walk to my building gives me too much time to think, and the high from selling the gala seats evaporates by the time I reach the front entrance.
The familiar helplessness hugs me tightly again. It doesn’t matter how much I try—I don’t seem to make any progress. There is always more money needed, more people desperate for help.
I’m failing you, Kyle.
The elevator door slides open on my floor and frustration bursts in my chest.
If I thought I had maxed out my daily dose of irritation during my lunch with Gio, I was wrong. Oddly, it pleases me, because having someone to blame for all my issues is the best medicine.
A very temporary one, but still.
There are only two condos on this level. The hallway between them has been lined with boxes for two weeks now. I haven’t met my new neighbors yet, but I’m confronted with their fucking boxes on a daily basis.
I march to their door and knock. No, I bang, my palm curled into a fist. Nothing. They must be at work. I decide to bang one more time, just to release some of my frustration, not really caring that it’s not directly related to my neighbor.
My hand connects with the wood. And then it doesn’t.
Losing my balance, I tumble into a wall of muscles.
Two strong hands steady me and I look up. I’m not short, but I have to crane my neck to meet this man’s eyes.
My center clenches involuntarily and I regret—briefly—my rule not to hook up with people I might run into afterward. My new neighbor is a descendant of Greek gods.
His black T-shirt stretches across broad shoulders and a chiseled chest, exposing arms with defined muscles. He’s wearing black sweatpants that hang low enough to draw my attention, and I briefly fantasize about the bulge suggested in between his thighs.
“May I help you? Other than keeping you upright?” His voice is laced with annoyance and something I can’t identify. It could be sarcasm, or amusement. The emotion aside, his baritone is like a decadent caress.
I jerk back as if his touch burned. And it did. A little. Or a lot.
His eyes are mesmerizing, those dark irises too seductive. And so is the stupid sly grin on his face. And the lazily tousled dark blond hair falling into his eyes. I don’t even like facial hair, and yet here I am, oddly attracted to whatever is happening on his face. It’s not even a sexy three-day stubble. He is sporting a full-on hipster beard.
