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“Turn here,” I direct Kingsley as we drive through Manhattan.
“That’s where the office is,” he says flatly, giving me some serious side-eye.
“You said we’d discuss where you’re dropping me off on the way, and now we’re discussing it,” I counter, trying to muster up a cheeky smile. It must not work because Kingsley’s eyes narrow further.
“If I drop you off at the office, I’ll only follow you onto the subway and all the way to your front door.”
I glare at him, then let out a defeated sigh. “Fine. But I’m not sure why you’re so dead set on driving me all the way home. Not to brag, but I’ve gotten there by myself every day for the entire four months I’ve been here.”
“Good to know. But now you don’t have to,” is all he says.
I finally give Kingsley my address, noting his slight look of disappointment at the sketchy neighborhood where my apartment is located before he schools his expression. I was hoping to avoid that, but here we are.
He changes course and makes his way out of the jungle of skyscrapers, designer boutiques, and billion-dollar penthouses.
We approach my street, and I direct him to turn right. Kingsley slows, and I’m sure he sees the men huddled around the entrance of my apartment building, eyeing up his expensive car. The only people who drive anything remotely close to this are drug dealers. Everyone else finds out quickly that their nice cars will be stripped for parts if left alone in this neighborhood.
“You can let me out here,” I insist, not wanting him to pull into the parking lot and cause more of a scene. Of course, the guys hanging around the front door are the same jerks who have been blasting their music all week.
“Which one is yours?” he demands as he drives straight into the lot despite my attempt to keep him away.
I reel a bit at his harsh tone but point to my apartment. “Unit 2,” I say softly. I knew he’d judge me for my shitty living situation, which is precisely why I didn’t want him to drop me off.
“Ground floor?” he grunts.
I nod.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
I hate the judgment, the look of anger and disappointment. Something snaps, and I turn to face Kingsley, righteous indignation rising and burning a hole in my chest. “Look, I get it. I’m poor and disgusting, and you disapprove of where I live. I moved here with what I thought was enough money from my grandma’s life insurance, but that dried up after the second month, and now I’m stuck here, alone in the world, clinging to a job that I hope one day will pay me a livable wage. What I don’t need right now is the most successful real estate developer in the city making me feel like shit for living the only way I can.”
I finish my rant and suck in a huge breath, a bit lightheaded from yelling. My heart is jackhammering in my chest, and stupid tears threaten to spill down my cheeks.
“Clementine,” Kingsley says softly, all the anger from his voice drained and replaced with gentleness. “I’m not judging you or your living situation. I’m worried about you. A young woman with a ground-floor apartment in this part of the city? I’m surprised your place hasn’t been broken into by now. Plus, a drug deal is happening a dozen feet from us. It’s no place for you.”
I shrug, unsure what he wants me to do about any of those things.
“I have a guest room,” he suddenly says as if it’s just occurred to him. “Actually, I have three. I don’t think anyone has ever stayed over, but the sheets get washed and changed once a week, regardless. You’ll be staying with me.”
I blink a few times, my mind spinning with this new proposal. Well, it’s not so much a proposal as a declaration. The thing is… I hate my apartment. I hate my neighbors. I hate the bars on my windows. I hate that I only get hot water if I shower at five in the morning. I hate crying myself to sleep on my couch, wondering if I’ll ever be as happy or content as when my grandma was alive.
But this offer is too good to be true. My mind has reservations, but my silly heart is already half in love with Kingsley Bowman.
“Are you even going to ask?”
Kingsley grins, and God, it’s all I can do not to reach over, brush my fingers over his lips, and kiss him. Crazy, I know. But he makes me feel all sorts of things.
He opens his mouth to respond when someone shouts at us.
“Hey! Yo, blondie!” my stupid neighbor says from his spot by the front door. “Maybe you’ll join our party this time instead of trying to crash it?”
The engine revs, and before I realize what’s happening, Kingsley hits the gas, and the car surges forward, coming to a screeching halt right in front of the group of drunk jerks.
“Holy shit!”
“What the fuck, man?”
“Goddamnit, what the hell?”
