by Amelia Wilde
“Did you need something, Mr. Pierce?”
“No, Stephanie. Actually—” I wrack my brain for a plausible request, something to hide the fact that something is bothering me, hide the fact that I’m not my usual carefree cocky self. “Give me a rundown of my schedule today.”
“Absolutely,” she says, looking down at a notepad nestled in the crook of her arm. “In fifteen minutes, there’s a department update meeting. At lunch, you’re scheduled to go out with…”
I’m looking at her, trying my damnedest to pay attention, but all I can think of are those eyes.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, desperate for a distraction. “Give me a minute, Stephanie.”
At first, I don’t understand the message on my screen.
It’s from Carolyn.
Why didn’t you tell me you met my new roommate? ;)
She had mentioned a new roommate, someone moving in this week from out in Colorado. A college roommate. I can’t remember the name, but…
It hits me like a Mack truck.
The suitcase.
The rain.
Carolyn’s neighborhood.
Quinn Campbell is Carolyn’s roommate.
Chapter Seven
Quinn
Friday morning comes quietly. I’d imagined that living in New York City would be like sticking my head into a waterfall of pure noise—the city that never sleeps, and all that—but Carolyn lives a charmed life. Her apartment is on the sixth floor of the building and the walls and windows are thick, blocking out all but the most insistent street noise.
I’ve just stretched out in the queen-size bed, luxuriating in the soft sheets that Carolyn’s made up the bed with, when my phone blares its ringtone from the bedside table, sending my heart rate through the roof.
“Shit!” I blurt into the shattered quiet of the room and fumble for the phone, snatching it up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Ms. Campbell?” It’s a man, but I can’t identify the deep voice. I feel a wild hope that maybe it’s Christian Pierce, the man with the stunning eyes, the chiseled jaw I kept seeing in my dreams last night. I don’t know how he got my number, but—
“Yeah. Yes. That’s me,” I say, putting my hand to my chest.
“This is Greg Porter of Porter Plumbing,” rumbles the voice on the other end of the line. Oh, Jesus, I forgot all about the message I left at the first plumbing company that popped up in a Google search. The realtor had someone come out and shut off the water, so the pipes aren’t actively leaking—at least, I hope he’s not calling to say there’s been a flood.
“Hi, Greg,” I say smoothly, my PR training kicking in. “Was Sherrie able to let you into the house?”
“Yes,” he says, but there’s a hitch in his voice that tells me all is not well. “But Ms. Campbell…”
“Lay it on me, Greg. What’s the deal with my basement?”
“The situation is going to involve more than pipe repair.”
“Okay?”
“The water wasn’t shut off quickly enough to prevent any damage to the drywall and the carpeting.” His sigh comes over the line clear as a damn bell. “It’s only lucky that you’ve moved out most of the furniture and possessions. Look, Ms. Campbell, we can fix the pipes, but I think you’re going to need a contractor to come down here and take a look at the drywall. At the very least, the carpet will need to be professionally cleaned, and with the amount of time the water’s been sitting—”
It occurs to me that Sherrie had the water turned off. She didn’t have it removed from the basement. Fuck.
“I understand. Are you able to do the repairs on the pipes, at least?”
He takes a second to answer, and my heart sinks. What the hell happened at my house? I turned the keys over to the realtor two weeks ago so that I could have stagers come in. Sherrie assured me that if I was out and everything was properly arranged, the house would go much faster. It’s like Colorado has me clamped in its jaw and doesn’t want to let go. It’s practically begging me to fly back and sort all of this out by myself.
I grit my teeth. I’m not going back there. Not for fucking anything.
“Yep,” he says, and from the way he says the word I get the impression that he’s standing in several inches of water in the basement of the house that shouldn’t be mine any longer. “We can get that squared away by five, six o’clock tonight.”
“Thanks, Greg,” I say. “I’ll speak to someone about the drywall.”
“That’s probably the best idea.”
I disconnect the call and flop back onto my plush, firm pillows.
Go ahead, universe, I think to myself. Hit me with it. I can take it.
Half an hour later, I’m riding the elevator down to the lobby of Carolyn’s building—my building—wearing a summery dress on loan from her closet, my hair piled on top of my head in an elaborate bun that looks more complicated than it is. I’m meeting Carolyn for lunch in three hours. In the meantime, I’m shopping.
I browse some of the boutiques I saw last night on my rainy trek through SoHo, goddamn treasuring it every time I come out of an air-conditioned clothing store into the gentle morning sunlight. The rest of my life might be waterlogged, but this—this is perfect.
Until my phone buzzes in my purse as I’m making my way back toward the sushi restaurant I wanted to try. It’s not far from the building where Carolyn works—one of her favorites, she said when I told her about it last night.
“Hello!” I lilt into the phone, my mind on a coral dress that’s inside one of my shopping bags. It’s going to look sharp as hell under a blazer for work, and classy but hot for a night out. Not that I’m planning any nights out. I’m perfectly content to watch Lifetime movies with Carolyn every night until forever.
“Quinn Campbell?”
“This is she.”
“This is Bennett Walker from HRM. I’m calling to check in—have you arrived in the city yet?”
“Yes, I have!” I say. A cab pulls slowly up to the curb next to me, and anxiety spikes down my spine. Is it that psycho coming for his revenge? A guy in a suit jogs up to the car and hops inside. My pulse slows.
“Ms. Campbell?” says Bennett Walker, and I realize I must have missed something in my distraction about the cab.
“Sorry about that—my attention was on something here. What did you say?”
“No problem. I said that I hoped the city was treating you well.”
I can’t help but laugh at that one, but there’s no reason to burden my new boss with the story of my arrival. “It’s wonderful. Thanks for asking.”
“The reason I’m calling,” he says, “is that there’s been a change here that’s going to affect your job description.”
My heart plummets into my shoes. Jesus Christ. Am I getting fired? Demoted? It would be right in line with everything else that’s happened, with the one exception of Carolyn’s awesome apartment.
“We’ve just brought on a high-profile client. It’s a new account,” Walker continues. “Instead of coming in on the associate level, we’d like to bump you up to an executive of reputation management. Obviously we’ll have a new salary offer commensurate with the increased responsibility.”
“You’re giving me a promotion?” I say, unable to keep the relief out of my voice.
“You come highly recommended from the Boulder branch, and we need someone experienced to handle this client. All of the other people we’d tap are maxed out on accounts, so your transfer is coming at the perfect time.”
“That…sounds great!” I say. Maybe New York City isn’t going to be a disaster.
“See you on Monday, Ms. Campbell,” Walker says. “Enjoy yourself this weekend.”
“I will. Goodbye!”
“Who was that?”
The voice comes from directly behind me, and I whirl around, coming face to face with Carolyn.
“My new job,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “They promoted me.”
“Already?”
“I know! Something about a new client? I’m not going to argue.”
“You know what we need to do?” Carolyn says, hooking her arm in mine and tugging me toward the door of the restaurant. “Celebrate. We’re going out tonight. To the Purple Swan.”
Chapter Eight
Christian
It’s a typical Friday night at the Purple Swan. Everyone’s energy is high, incandescent somehow, and even the wait staff seems to be in on it. They’re practically running from the kitchens to the tables to the bars and back, and though the Swan is too high class to overbook, there aren’t many seats sitting empty around the linen-covered tables.
But the noise is giving me a fucking headache.
I look across the table at the two empty seats, an anomaly on a night like tonight—but Jax Hunter, one of my closest friends in New York, bailed on me tonight, along with his wife, Cate. They’re usually excellent company.
I just don’t feel like company tonight.
I feel like going back to my penthouse, alone, where there’s no one else at all, and installing myself in the den until I’m too tired to stay awake anymore. The silence would be a blessing. The darkness would stop the pounding in my head.
Normally, I’d fantasize about being at my penthouse alone, but tonight I haven’t been able to stop myself. I’m imagining Quinn Campbell’s lithe body tucked next to me on my leather sectional, her breasts rising and falling under a skintight tank top. She smelled good even in the rain, like pure soap with an undercurrent of fresh flowers.
But Christian Pierce never bails on Friday night.
There’s no slipping out the back entrance alone when Melody is in the picture, at any rate, and Christ, is she ever in the picture.
The black dress she’s wearing is cut so low in the front that I swear I keep catching glimpses of her belly button, and her makeup is heavy and dark, making her gray eyes stand out in sharp contrast to her deep red lips.
“Where’s your mind at, Christian?” she murmurs to me during a break in the conversation. Two of my friends are out tonight—Todd and Jeffrey—and they have both brought along women who I’ve never met. The four of them seem to be getting along famously. Meanwhile, I’ve been chiming in on autopilot, flashing a half smile I don’t really mean, to cover up the fact that I’m not paying much attention.
Apparently, it didn’t fool Melody.
“Your dress,” I say. It’s not entirely a lie.
It’s not entirely the truth, either.
She gives me a little grin, cocking her head to the side. “Are you sure that’s all?”
I dart my eyes down to her cleavage. “How could I possibly be thinking of anything else?”
“You’re not looking very closely for someone who loves this dress.”
“I wouldn’t want you to think I only care about clothing.”
“That’s right,” she says, her sensual tone wrapping around the back of my neck. “It’s what’s under the dress that’s captured your imagination.”
Melody’s usually seductive voice does nothing to alleviate my headache, which is growing by the minute.
It does nothing to take my mind off Quinn Campbell, who has invaded my innermost thoughts and taken up permanent residence since the moment I first saw her. It doesn’t help that she’s Carolyn’s roommate. She’s so fucking close. All I’d need to do to get her number is send one text message to Carolyn.
When she first texted me about her roommate, I responded casually, lightly, laughing it off. What a hilarious coincidence, I can’t believe it, that’s just New York City for you.
The lightning shooting through my veins implies this is more than a meeting by happenstance. Even if it is a coincidence, it has the potential to be so much more.
You can never go there.
Even Melody’s alluring come-on can’t shake her out of my mind. For once, my endless well of charming quips fails me completely. I lean over and kiss the side of her neck to hide that I’m barely responding to her, even though she’s pulling out all the stops. Melody smells, oddly, like baby powder. When I pull back, she’s looking at me with heated eyes, lustful eyes, and I think, fuck, I have to get out of this, I can’t take her home with me, I don’t want to.
“Fancy meeting you here,” says a voice, crystal clear, from the other side of the table. Relief washes over me as I turn away from Melody—the comment was obviously meant for me, and it would be rude as hell to ignore it.
Carolyn stands near the two empty seats, looking great in something short and midnight blue, but it’s the person behind her who immediately consumes my full attention.
Quinn Campbell stands confidently in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Purple Swan, a complete knockout in a structured red gown, her dark hair falling in loose curls around her face, over her shoulders. I want more than anything to stand up, walk around the table, and run my hands through it right now before I kiss her.
Our eyes lock and her mouth quirks in a strange little smile. I’m dying to know what’s going on inside her head, dying to know what her skin feels like under that gown, dying to know everything about her. The energy between us crackles across the empty space.
“Quinn Campbell,” I call across the table, laughter on my lips, a smile on my face that keeps everything hidden under the surface. “Tell me that suitcase made it home.”
“Of course it did,” she says in a saucy tone, sidling up to stand next to Carolyn. “This wasn’t in it, though. I bought this especially for our girls’ night.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You can’t waste that gown on a couple of seats at the bar.”
Carolyn pats the back of the empty chairs. “Are these taken?”
“Now they are,” Quinn says, lowering herself gracefully into the chair across from me. “Quinn Campbell,” she says, looking around the table. “Who are all you jokers?”
Carolyn laughs, sitting down beside her, and everyone else joins in.
Everyone but Melody.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of her face. Her eyes are narrowed, ruby lips pressed together, and she’s gripping the edge of the table like it might float away.
This is not her night.
Chapter Nine
Quinn
I’m still reeling from our evening at the Swan on Monday morning, when I get up early to make sure everything is perfect for my first day at the NYC offices of HRM. The promotion has raised the stakes. Not only will I be working at HRM’s world headquarters, I’ll be handling a “high-profile client.” I’m not sure what that means yet in New York City terms—I’m certain it will be on another level from the clients I managed in Boulder—but this is going to be big.
My nerves started kicking in last night when it finally hit me: I don’t have a fallback plan. The moment my house in Colorado sells, there’ll be nowhere to run back to if this job relocation goes south. I guess I could always try transferring back—but no, I couldn’t. If I’m not the massive success my previous supervisors predicted I would be, I could find myself jobless in New York, relying fully on Carolyn’s mercy.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t have a boyfriend—or a fiancé—to serve as my safety net.
I have to be a smash hit at HRM from here on out. It was one thing to be a big fish in a small pond back in Colorado, but I’m going to need to be incredible if I’m going to succeed in New York. I can already sense the competition in the air. People here are bloodthirsty when it comes to climbing the career ladder. One wrong move, and you can go tumbling all the way down to the concrete, never to be heard from again.
So I was awake before my alarm went off at six, my eyes open wide in the early morning darkness of my room.
The job isn’t the least of it.
I might be a little bit obsessed with Christian Pierce.
When I saw him at the Swan, I wanted to walk around the table and push that other woman out of the seat next to him. I have to know th
e story behind those eyes. I couldn’t work up the courage to ask Carolyn more about him for the rest of the weekend. Something is making me hesitate. The last thing I want is to seem like some flighty idiot who latches on to the first shiny object she sees, even if that object happens to be a living, breathing man with an incredible body and eyes that keep me awake at night.
I can’t stop thinking about him—the sexy half-smile, the way he’s so effortlessly charming, and his eyes…there’s something deeper there, a secret he’s not sharing.
Or maybe not. Maybe he is exactly what he seems—a billionaire playboy with too much money, a cocky attitude, and a body that can net him any woman he wants. Maybe I want him to be more complicated so I have an excuse to be intrigued.
Stop, I tell myself firmly as I apply a coat of mascara to my eyelashes. Makeup first—sharp and neutral and wholly professional—then my hair. I spent an extra ten minutes in the shower making sure my legs were shaved to perfection. You cannot have your attention overtaken by a man right now.
Not even if that man is Christian Pierce.
Did I imagine it, or was he looking at me with the same intensity I felt? The woman he was with—Melody, I think it was—didn’t look very happy about the little back-and-forth we had going between us when Carolyn and I were first sitting down.
Whatever. From what little I have heard from Carolyn, Christian dates like it’s going out of style.
My heart turns over when I think of that. There’s another reason I should steer clear of him. From here on out, I’m only interested in men who give a shit about things like commitment.
And honesty.
Derek was the last bastard to get the chance at destroying my heart with bullshit like having a secret affair with my best friend. For an entire year.
It’s what I think about as I sweep my hair back into a flawless chignon, put on my new coral dress and a snappy blazer, slip my feet into nude high heels that make me look like a supermodel, and head out the door right on time, my phone and wallet tucked into an oversized purse that usually holds my laptop. On the off chance that HRM assigns me one today, I’m not going to want to haul two of them across the city.