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There’re plenty of other things to occupy my mind. I own properties all over New York City. None compare to this building, which is my pride and joy, but they all add to the considerable balances in my bank accounts.
I’m richer by the second. Money piles up even as I step into the elevator and hit the button for the eighth floor.
The doors close and I can almost see her there in that dress, with those hooded eyes. If she stood just behind me, most of her body would be hidden by mine. If I turned around to touch her…
I’m not thinking about this. I’m not thinking about some mystery woman, who lives in this building that I own, with whoever the hell was in the elevator with her that night.
The elevator stops at the eighth floor and the doors open. One of the doormen is waiting in the hall and he steps back with a deferential nod. “Mr. Maxwell.”
“Tom.”
He waits for me to exit, then takes my place in the elevator.
I’m alone in the hall. Compared to how loud the city is, even a space like this—a hallway meant to take people from place to place and not much more—feels luxurious. I made sure it was that way. I insisted on plush carpeting, crown molding, and neutral paint colors with a hint of warmth. This place isn’t institutional. This is a home for people who need an escape. An oasis.
The only person it’s not an escape for is me.
I own the building. I headquarter my business here. I live in the penthouse. There’s not a square inch of this building that’s meant for anything but making money, and that’s what I intend to do. Double it. Triple it. Become so unfathomably rich that I can forget about my past entirely and never have worries or burdens like the ones I grew up with, the ones that put my father into an early grave.
And this…this isn’t an errand that will make me any money.
I don’t pay house calls. I have people for that.
Today, I’m making an exception.
That’s her door. 8A.
I raise my hand and knock, not expecting to see her there. Staring wide-eyed at me in a simple yet elegant red dress like we’re back in that elevator.
Fuck me.
Maddie
This is it.
This isit.
I move quickly through the apartment and call out, “I’m coming,” in what I hope is a calm, confident voice. I’m definitely not calm or confident. That means faking it is my only option.
I take a deep breath and open the door, not prepared for a wave of air to be pulled from my lungs.
Graham Maxwell is gorgeous. That’s the first thought that comes to mind. He’s tall and dark haired with the kind of face that belongs in the movies. Blue eyes that look me up and down with a kind of heated curiosity. The sight of him makes my heart race and my palms sweaty.
“Oh!” I blurt out, because…oh my God. It’s him—the man from the elevator. I’m reminded of that night all over again. And then the pain that happened afterward. “We’ve met before. Or…I saw you in an elevator before.”
He flashes me a smile that’s all charm. He is a million times more confident than I am when he offers me his hand to shake. “Graham Maxwell.”
I take it, immediately overwhelmed by how solid and strong it feels. His touch is hot and I have to pull my hand away sooner than I’d like. I slip my hand out of his, concentrating hard on keeping my breathing steady. “Maddie.”
“Maddie,” he murmurs my name, like he’s testing it out. The way he says it is nearly sinful.
That buzz between us is still there. I canfeelit, just like I felt it for those thirty seconds in the elevator six months ago.
“Please. Come in. Can I offer you anything to drink?” I swallow thickly, attempting to calm myself down. I keep telling myself it’ll be okay even if this doesn’t work out, but I know it’s a lie. I need him to help me, or the downward spiral of my life is going to get even worse.
“I think we’d better cut to the chase.” His voice makes it hard to think. “On the phone, you said you had an…urgent problem to discuss.”
My face gets hot. I knew what I was asking for when I made that phone call. Actually having him in my apartment is overwhelming. “Let’s sit down. Is that okay?”
