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Closing the refrigerator, I walk back to the windows. The water’s calm and peaceful, especially from this high up. There are fancy boats docked in the jetty and a few people walking along the boardwalk.
Plunk, plunk, plunk…
What is that?My body jolts, and my fight-or-flight kicks in immediately. On edge, I spin around from the amazing view, my eyes darting from side to side. Now that I have heard it, I can’t unhear it. A slow, almost silent thumping. Soothing yet totally annoying at the same time, just like the second hand on a wall clock. As I look around, I’m half expecting the noise to jump out at me.
Plunk, plunk, plunk.
I tentatively walk around the apartment, my head snapping from left to right, looking for clues as to what it might be. I didn’t hear it earlier when Brian was here, although he was talking almost nonstop, so there was no way this would have stood out. Following the noise to the kitchen, I open cupboards, check out the refrigerator again, and then open the dishwasher.
Plunk, plunk, plunk.
Frustration starts to dig into me until I spot it. The kitchen sink. The tap drips in a constant rhythm. I turn the tap tighter, hoping to cease the noise, but it is already tight. Hopefully, I somehow fixed it. But just as I slowly pull my hand away, the drips keep coming.
“Shit,” I say to no one other than myself. My eyes flick across the counter, which is bare, except for the nice basket left from the building. I could ring Brian, but I don’t want to be that annoying person who finds something wrong with their apartment on the first day. We got off to a good start. Finding a kitchen cloth in the cupboard, I place it at the bottom of the sink, something to block the drip of water against the stainless steel. Silence greets me.
My eyes flick around the apartment once more. The quietness now is almost deafening, so I put on music, which always gives me the strength I need to get through my to-do lists. I make quick work of unpacking my bag, then settle in with a small box of artisan cookies I found in the welcome basket. Ease and excitement fill me at my first night in a new city.
CHAPTER TWO - EDWARD ROTHSCHILD
If only my mother could see me now. Jeans and a workman's shirt. Boots and tools. A far cry from the suit-wearing Baltimore billionaire poster boy I am portrayed as being in the public eye.
“How did this break again?” I ask as I drill into the cupboard, wondering how the older gentleman in 2b was able to break it again.
“These things are not made as good as they used to be,” the man grumbles from beside me where he positioned himself the moment I arrived, directing me where to drill and how to fix the cupboard he broke. I am sure he will start to tell me all about how he had to walk to work in the snow because he had no fancy car back in his day, or how he had to handwrite letters instead of email or text messages because cell phones were not yet invented when he was young.
“They sure aren’t, sir,” I reply through gritted teeth as I test the door. It now moves perfectly and closes snugly. There is no question that it broke under stress. These things are European, and they don’t break so easily. Our whole building is made of high-quality fittings and fixtures, everything of the highest standard. From our staff to our amenities to our fit-out and our location. This building is one of the best in the entire city. And it's mine.
My eyes flick to the tenant, who now moves across the kitchen as I pack up my tools, and I see him lean against the cupboard door that is open on the other side of the space. The penny drops.
“Maybe don’t lean on the door like that. They may be tough, but I don’t think that they’re made to hold our weight,” I offer, hoping I don’t offend, but seriously, this old guy should know better.
“Oh,” is all he says as he waves me off before closing the door and moving around to wipe down the counter.
As I clean up the mess I made and start packing my tools away, I huff a small laugh. My parents paid thousands of dollars in private school fees and sent me to one of the top universities in the country, and while I did graduate with a degree in International Relations, I prefer to work with my hands over my brain whenever I can.
“Don’t forget to tell the super that this is the third time this thing has broken. If it breaks again, I will have to contact the building owner to complain.”
“I will be sure to let him know.” I nod and smile tightly, keeping my head low so he doesn’t get a good look at me. Not that he would expect a Rothschild to be fixing his cupboard, but my poor disguise hides very little.
“Tell him I know Edward Rothschild personally. I have his number, and I will call him if the maintenance you provide is not professionally done.” He continues with his light threat, pointing a finger at me. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent the laugh from slipping as I pull my cap down on my head. He doesn’t know me, nor does he have my number. I don’t give my number to anyone. My brothers and my assistant, but that's about it.
Privacy for us Rothschild brothers is paramount. Our lives are played out so publicly most of the time that anything we can scurry away for ourselves, we do. I am happiest when we are just hanging out, or on the golf course, away from prying eyes. Because that’s where I get to just be me. That’s maybe why I enjoy secretly working with tools on the weekends. Teaching myself a trade. It allows me to just be, without the weight of Baltimore society on my shoulders, along with the heaped expectations from my mother.
Here I am known as simply Eddie, the maintenance man. Not Edward Rothschild, owner of this building and half of Baltimore. The only person in this building who knows who I am is Brian, the super, who tends to work the concierge desk. Everyone else either doesn’t say anything or doesn’t expect a billionaire to be mending broken cupboards and faulty doors in their free time.
“All fixed. Don’t hesitate to call the desk downstairs if you need anything else.” I grab my tools, and he walks me out. After a quick handshake and a short ride in the elevator, I meet Brian downstairs just as he is getting off a call.
“Hi, bossman,” he says, and I roll my eyes at him.
“How many times do I need to tell you, just call me Eddie.” We play this game almost every weekend. I know he only does it to get a rise out of me. He is playing with fire half the time, but he is full of energy and great to have on the front desk. Plus, I would be lying if I said he wasn’t one of my best employees. He is also fully aware who pays his salary and gives him a healthy bonus every year, so he kisses my ass at every opportunity.
“Oh, stop being such a grump,” he says, flapping a hand at me. “There is a new tenant in 10A.”
“10A?” I ask, confused. That is the Wakeford apartment. It’s been vacant for years. Ever since old Dr. Wakeford died in New York. Whispers say it was mafia related. His daughter Catherine now owns the apartment.
“Yeah. Katie Taylor. A young woman. Beautiful, actually. A little quiet, but she is now my best friend, just so you know.” He says it like he’s laying down the law that she is not to be messed with. Not that I mingle with tenants. I see them occasionally when I need to fix something in their apartments, but that is rare. I usually mill around, tinkering with the common areas or offices.
“Best friend, huh?” My eyebrows rise with a smirk. Brian collects best friends like someone does stamps. There is always a new one. But he seems serious about this tenant, so I pretend to conspire with him.
