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I’m shaking my head. “This money will resuscitate my depleted savings.”
When I unlock the door to my tiny apartment in our town’s one and only apartment building and close it behind me an hour later, the shock has almost worn off. I remove the check from where I had tucked it in my purse and lay it on my two-person kitchen table. I’ll deposit it on the way to work in the morning. But for now, as somebody who’s never won a thing in her life, I want to look at it for a while.
The weight of the day, and the beers, hit me, so I grab a cold bottle of water from the kitchen, pick up the week’s mail that’s been piling up, and plop down on the sofa.
I flip through bill after bill and a bunch of marketing crap but stop dead when I come to a pink embossed envelope. My heart lodges in my throat.
Oh no. No. No.
I recognize that handwriting. Anger and disbelief wash over me.
Are you freaking kidding me?
Are they that bold? Or that clueless?
I don’t even have to open it to know what it is. I’ve seen enough people in town rip the seal on theirs.
My eyes burn. My hands shake.
I drag my eyes away from the wedding invitation, looking anywhere but down in my lap. My gaze lands on the table.
Standing, I let everything on my lap fall to the floor. I stroll over to the table, pick up the check and stare at it.
New York, here I come.
Chapter2
Elliott
Reaching over, I smash the alarm, hitting snooze for probably the tenth time before scratching my chest and yawning widely. The nice thing about being me is I don’t answer to anybody but the man in the mirror. If I want to be late, I’ll fucking be late.And after a long night of sitting at a bar talking with a woman more interested in my bank account than me, and then realizing I wasn’t even interested in having sex with her, I deserve a few extra hours of sleep.
I roll my head to the empty side of my bed. Fuck. You’d think I would be used to waking up alone at age thirty-four. It’s not like women ever flocked to me. This is my norm and has been my entire life. And yet, disappointment settles like a lead balloon deep in my gut.
As a young man, I’d foolishly thought cash would bring them in droves, regardless of the ugly scars on my face. While they don’t tease or call me names these days, they only stick around for the gifts. Once they get to know me, they decide staying for the long haul isn’t worth it.
Story of my life.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I jerk the covers aside and sit up. First things first. I pick up the phone and dial the kitchen.
It rings three times before it’s picked up, a cheerful voice on the other end. “Mr. Carrington, Sir, good afternoon.”
“Afternoon, Gus. Are you having a good day so far?”
“It’s a beautiful day, Sir. The sun is shining. The city is bustling with activity. What can we get for you this afternoon?”
An advantage to living in a hotel—I never have to cook. Or clean. And I have a constant supply of top-of-the-line bathroom products at my disposal. I have a place I can stay in all of my hotels, but I prefer living out of my New York location, so this penthouse suite is mine, and mine alone. It’s never rented out. I keep personal items here. I work from here. It never made sense to me to own an expensive apartment when I already own an expensive hotel.
And I like New York.
I can afford nice things, and I enjoy traveling. I won’t apologize for that. Still, I’ve grown tired of making those trips alone, sleeping with random women I don’t remember two weeks later.
“I’ll take two eggs over easy, bacon, whole wheat toast and some strawberries, please.”
“Coffee, Sir?”
“Absofuckinglutely. And some ice water, please.” I’ll need to hydrate anyway.
“What time would you like it delivered, Sir?”
