Love Story

by Lauren Layne

  Since my Alexander McQueen minidress is black (the arch nemesis of powdered sugar, obvs), I reach for the chocolate one, even as I set my clutch on the counter and fish out my phone.

  4:58 a.m.

  Two more minutes.

  “How’s Marta dealing with the pregnancy of Baby Number Three?” I ask, taking a bite of the donut and shifting my attention back to Ramon, who’s already polished off his old-fashioned, and is contemplating a second. I nudge the box toward him.

  “She’s good,” he says. “Excited that we’re finally having a girl.”

  “A girl!” I say, reaching across the counter and squeezing his massive forearm. “Congratulations, I hadn’t heard!”

  “Just found out yesterday,” he says with a happy smile, apparently deciding the occasion calls for another maple bar.

  “I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day, with this precious little red bow—”

  “Yes, because that’s what every infant needs,” a low voice interrupts. “A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that needs to be dry-cleaned? Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”

  I don’t have to look at my clock to know what time it is.

  Five o’clock.

  On the dot.

  With an eye roll, I don’t even bother to turn as my red nails tear off another piece of donut and pop it into my mouth. “Ramon, do you think you could talk to maintenance about adjusting the temp? It just got a little cold in here.”

  Ramon’s been working here long enough to know my request isn’t for real. Not that it matters, because he’s already set his donut aside and straightened up, practically saluting the newcomer.

  “Mr. Mulroney. Good morning, sir.”

  “Ramon.” The voice is low and serious, a touch impatient, although not quite rude.

  You know that adage that you catch more flies with honey? I’m not so sure it’s true. I bring donuts to the front desk guys just about every morning, and they adore me. I know they do.

  But they respect him.

  Giving in to the inevitable, I finally let my eyes flick to the side, my gaze colliding with a stern brown scowl.

  I put on my widest, sparkliest smile, only because I know it drives Mr. Mulroney crazy. True to habit, I see a muscle in his jaw twitch as I flutter my eyelashes.

  “Good morning, Andrew.”

  “Georgiana.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only my late grandmother has ever called me that, and I’m pretty sure that’s only because I was her namesake. Everyone else calls me Georgie. Well okay, not everyone. Ramon and the other guys still insist on calling me Ms. Watkins, but I’m working on it. See: daily donuts.

  I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s direction. “Donut?”

  His lip curls. In case you haven’t already gotten a read on this guy, he’s the type that sneers at donuts.

  He lifts a boring black travel mug. “Already have my breakfast.”

  “Blended up quinoa sprinkled with a few bits of spinach and pretension?” I ask.

  “Whey powder protein shake.”

  “Sounds immensely satisfying.”

  He takes a sip of the nastiness and watches me with cold brown eyes. “The body is a temple, Georgiana.”

  There it is.

  Full circle to my above commentary about what sort of people are up and about at five a.m.

  Me? The one just coming in from a night out, although I’m pleased to say that at twenty-six, I’m a lot better at it than I was at twenty-two, and no longer feel the need to drink myself into oblivion. A few glasses of champagne is my usual limit, and never past two a.m., so I’m perfectly sober.

  Him?

  Well you already know which type of five a.m. person he is.

  Who is he, you ask?

  Andrew Mulroney, Esq.

  I know this, because we moved into the building on the exact same day, and right before we got into a horrendous fight—over whose movers should have access to the building’s loading dock first—he’d handed me his business card.

  The thick, white card stock declared in bold, no-bullshit black letters that he had a fancy law degree to go along with the fancy suit he was wearing on a Saturday.

  Andrew had handed it over with such superiority, I’d actually wished for a half second that I had a business card of my own that would somehow be better than his. Like, lined with gold, or something. No, platinum. With a diamond in the corner, which would be too heavy for him to hold, and he’d drop it, thus having to kneel at my feet to pick it up…

  What a fantasy it was.

  But then I’d realized it was just as well that I didn’t have a business card.

  Because it would say, what…

  Georgiana Watkins…Professional Party Girl?

  Anyway, I digress. Despite the high temps of that swampy July morning, the encounter had been the start of an epic cold war.

  Me, the socialite in Apartment 86A, against the uptight esquire in Apartment 79B.

  I let my gaze drift over him, even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The man’s like a robot—a lesson in sameness.

  It’s like we’re in some sort of uptight version of Groundhog Day. There’s always the black mug, containing some healthy gunk, in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani garment bag in his left, enveloping what I know to be a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

  His coppery hair is perfectly styled, although I’d swear that there’s some natural curl in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. Hard jaw, perfectly shaven. Dark brown eyes cold and flat. Black gym bag over one shoulder.

  I suppose you could say he changes up his attire, because he does alternate between black and gray gym shirts. But considering that they seem to be the exact same cut, both colors molding perfectly to his impressively sculpted upper body, we’re not giving him any points for variety there.

  Same goes for the lower half. The black shorts in summer have given way to sleek black sweatpants now that October’s upon us, but they’re both black and Nike, so we’ll give him no credit for changing it up.

  The shoes though…

  I do a double take.

  Well, well, well…

  Instead of the usual black gym shoes, the man’s shoes are red. I don’t know how I missed it before.

  I drag my eyes back up his body with a grin, and he gives just the slightest roll of his eyes to indicate that he’s noticed my slow perusal and isn’t fazed in the least.

  “You went shopping, Dorothy!” I say happily.

  He stares at me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t catch the Wizard of Oz reference. “I don’t shop.”

  Of course not. Far too frivolous.

  “No, that makes sense,” I say, pointing at his feet. “Glinda would have given these to you.”

  Andrew looks down at his Rolex watch. “I’ve got to go. Ramon, have a good day.”

  “You too, Mr. Mulroney,” Ramon says with a deferential nod. “Enjoy your workout.”

  “Yes, do,” I say, turning and watching as Andrew moves toward the front door of our building. “What’s on the schedule today? Treadmill, or just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road?”

  Andrew Mulroney, Esq., doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn before pushing through the revolving doors and stepping out into the still-dark autumn morning.

  Now, come on. Tell me that wasn’t at least a little bit fun, despite the ungodly morning hour.

  I turn back to Ramon, who’s once again picked up his donut. “You don’t have to kiss his ass, you know.”

  Ramon gives the slightest smile. “I do if I want a Christmas bonus.”

  I lay a hand over my chest in mock affront. “You don’t kiss my ass, and I’ll still give you a Christmas bonus.”

  “Respectfully, you’re a bit different from most of our residents, Ms. Watkins.”

  “Does that mean you’ll call me Georgie
?” I ask hopefully.

  He merely smiles wider. “Enjoy your morning, Ms. Watkins.”

  I sigh. “Thought so.” I push the box of donuts toward him. “Give these to the other guys when they come in. And don’t forget to take one home to Marta.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Watkins.”

  I pluck my cranberry-colored clutch off the desk and walk backward toward the elevator, not even the slightest bit unsteady in my sky-high Jimmy Choo’s. “Enjoy your ‘weekend,’ ” I tell Ramon, knowing that although today’s Tuesday, Ramon has Wednesday and Thursday off.

  The second I step into the elevator—the button for the eighty-sixth floor already lit up, courtesy of Ramon and the building’s fancy tech—I start to anticipate the prospect of crawling into bed, getting a few hours’ sleep before my hair appointment at four.

  And if for a second my mind registers the depressing thought that the most exciting part of my day has already come and gone, I push it away.

  Love stories you’ll never forget

  By authors you’ll always remember

  eOriginal Romance from Random House

  randomhousebooks.com

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