door open for her, tamping down the uncharacteristic surge of attraction. “You’re welcome,” I quip.
“I didn’t say thank you,” she replies, a wicked curve pulling at her lips. “Yet.”
Drew
I DUST MYSELF off and roll my shoulders back, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. These boots were not made for climbing four flights of stairs. Mr. Suit is watching my every move like his life depends on it—though I don’t mind. He’s gorgeous. If I had to make a quick guess I’d say mid-thirties, a lawyer/banker/insert mind-numbing profession here. But his suit fits like a dream, nipping in a trim waist and accenting broad shoulders. He might be desk-bound, but he works out. His eyes are the colour of the sky and his hair has an attractive reddish sheen to it, with warm-toned stubble on his sharp jaw to match.
Who would have known I’d be hot for a ginger?
“Were you stuck in there long?” He steps back so I can escape the concrete column of doom.
“How long is too long without phone reception? I was starting to worry I’d have to forage for food.” I cock my head. “Why don’t I know you? Do you live on this floor?”
He nods. “405.”
“We’re neighbours, then. I’m in 406.” I have a sudden urge to do something bold—to shake off the critical voice that’s been nagging me ever since I packed my bags and flew home to Melbourne. Each night has been an exercise in distraction—Netflix binges until I fall asleep, trying not to wish the weeks away so I can get on with my next adventure. Being home makes me antsy.
But tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.
“Want to come in for a drink?” I tilt my head, studying my smart-mouthed rescuer. The guy looks serious, like he’s got a gold medal in frowning. But I sense something beneath the surface—a simmering heat, like he’s stripping me back. I’ve had a lot of guys look at me over the years...but nothing like this.
It’s like I’m something precious behind glass.
“Is that your way of saying thank you?” he asks. There’s a slight crinkle to the edge of his eyes—like a delightful chink in his armour. “With liquor.”
“It only seems fair. After all, if you hadn’t come along, the poor concierge guy might have found a pile of bones at the top of the stairs. It would have traumatised him for life.” I nod, a mock sincere expression on my face. “You’re basically a national hero.”
He laughs, but still hasn’t accepted my offer. There’s no ring on his finger—no tan lines, either. That doesn’t mean he’s single, however, and for a moment my heart drops like a stone off a cliff. It’s stupid. I’ve recently come out of the biggest heartbreak of my life and I am not looking for anything.
In fact, when I’d hastily thrown everything I owned into two suitcases, tears streaming down my face, I’d promised myself I was done with trying to live up to other people’s expectations. And I was certainly done with men in suits. Men with money. Men who had more power and more value than me.
Mr. Suit is clearly one of those guys. Wrong for me. Bad for me. And so tempting my body is throwing a party. Which should be the biggest red flag of all—because the more I want a guy, the bigger a jerk he usually turns out to be.
I open my mouth to rescind my offer, but he nods. “Sure, why not?”
What happened to turning over a new leaf, huh? Learning from your mistakes?
Sadly, my brain is out of there so fast only a brain-shaped cloud of dust remains.
I can’t find the willpower to turn him away, because this guy’s magnetism is so strong, my body is almost vibrating with want. There’s something about him—something mysterious and enticing that’s like a hand pulling me closer so he can whisper naughty things in my ear.
I head toward my temporary apartment and pull the key out of my bag. “I didn’t think you’d say yes for a minute.”
“Neither did I.”
The way he says it sends a delicious shiver through me. Maybe this is exactly what I need right now—a little instant gratification to smooth the edges of the gaping hole where my heart used to be. A meaningless make-out session with a random guy to boost my confidence. Possibly a hookup. Quick, dirty, with no tomorrows. With no talking and no plans and no worrying about what happens next.
Yeah, psychologists would have a field day with me. But I’m reaching deep into the bag of fucks I have to give and I’m coming up empty.
Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You only invited him in for a drink.
Everyone knows what that means, right? Sure, he’s my neighbour and I probably wouldn’t go there under normal circumstances. But I’m only here until the wedding, and then I’m taking off for some sunshine and sand while I sort my life out. This situation is temporary, so who cares if I have to avoid him in the elevators for a little while afterward?
“Nice place,” he says as we walk into the apartment.
“It’s not mine.” I glance at the chic decor, with the eclectic art making up the gallery wall next to the dining table, and unique trinkets from all over the world adding life and personality to the room. “I’m only here for a few weeks.”
Mr. Suit raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t like staying in one place.” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair. “Life’s too short to set down roots.”
Mr. Suit snorts. “Ah, so you hate responsibility.”
I bristle, more because it’s true than because it’s a rude thing to say. I don’t like being easy to read—it makes me vulnerable. I decide then and there not to tell this guy anything real. Nothing about my life, about my job, about my family. If this goes somewhere, it’ll be all about the pleasure. The physical. I can tuck the real me away into a little box and let my alter ego out to play.
“Let me guess.” I walk straight to the vintage bar cart and wriggle my fingers over the generous selection of liquors Charlotte thoughtfully told me to “go ham” on. “You’re pro-responsibility.”
“I am.”
I sense him behind me, the chemistry snapping like an electric fence around us. I don’t think I’ve been so attracted to someone this quickly before—usually I like to suss a guy out. Dig a little deeper. But I don’t want to do that with Mr. Suit, because I know it’ll be bad, bad, bad, all the way down.
Better to go by the ignorance-is-bliss principle.
I pull the lid off a bottle of Glenfiddich and pour two glasses. The heavy cut-crystal tumblers are like weights in my hand, and I turn to Mr. Suit, offering one to him. “And you’re a workaholic, which is why I haven’t seen you around before.”
“Perceptive.”
