something I have to own as sinister.
Sienna would hate it that I fucked Ally.
And I think I kind of like that.
* * *
I check the details of my appointment once more, wishing my assistant Lesley would proofread her emails before sending them.
Two p.m. appuntment with Grayson Heynes. 44 West Eleventh, The Vilage. Complete renovashun. Meet at address.
Her spelling is so bad that I’ve often wondered how the hell she graduated from high school. But what she lacks in her ability with the written word she makes up for in every other way. Lesley is my organisational guru, and she works harder than anyone I’ve ever known. No matter when I email her, she writes back within minutes. She is calm and strangely unflappable.
God knows I need her stability.
More now than usual.
I have to admit that since the weekend I’ve been in a weird headspace. I went running twice—morning and night, both days. That’s not completely out of the ordinary, but it’s been a long time since I’ve pushed myself that hard.
Only I’ve found myself with an odd surplus of energy since that night with him.
I shy away from using his name.
It’s as though my blood has been supercharged and I am a different person altogether. I look the same, but I’m not. It’s really weird. And I don’t welcome the feeling—not one little bit.
Jeremy taught me everything I need to know about relationships. I will never again let a man change who I am. I will never again let a man make me doubt myself.
I shiver. I’ve been thinking of Jeremy more lately than usual. That’s Ethan’s fault too... Maybe Eliza was wrong. I’m not ready for this. What’s wrong with being celibate and alone anyway? I’m pretty sure I can get all my kicks from Game of Thrones.
Mmm... Jon Snow...
I feel nothing.
God, what kind of sexual spell has Ethan Ash cast over me that even invoking Jon Snow doesn’t dull the memories of our night together?
I turn my head, scanning the street in one direction. Nothing. Just the buzz of normal West Village life. A woman with two small children and a Golden Retriever on one side of the street and a tourist couple on the other.
Neither of those looks like my new client.
I turn in the opposite direction just in time to see a man step out of a black limousine. He wears a suit but it barely contains his strength. He’s short and broad, with close-cut blond hair, a golden tan, and he wears sunglasses despite the fact the day is bleak.
He moves towards me purposefully so I smile, glad I applied an extra layer of my favourite bright red lipstick.
‘Miss Douglas?’
‘Ally, please,’ I say, extending my hand, trying to place his accent. Australian?
He nods in answer. ‘This way.’ He gestures to the door of the townhouse behind me and I have to fight my smile.
I love these brownstones. Like every woman my age, I grew up on Friends and Sex and the City repeats, and these buildings exemplify New York to me. It’s why I love where I live, around the corner from here. Because I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of my favourite TV show and it’s every bit as amazing as I thought it would be.
But a whole townhouse—no, two? He pushes the door open and we’re right in a construction site. There are tins of paint, ladders, and yellow tape, presumably indicating ‘no-go’ areas.
‘You’re joining the two together?’
Excitement swarms through me. The cost of the real estate alone, and then these extensive renovations, indicate that Mr. Heynes has considerable finances at his disposal.
I take on many projects, for clients with varying degrees of wealth, but by far the most fun to work with are the couples or clients who are seriously loaded. Who let me go to town on assembling an art collection worthy of a world-class gallery. I suspect Mr. Heynes might just be one of them.
‘This way, please.’
I fall into step beside him, breathing in the architectural beauty of the building as we go. I note with pleasure that someone has chosen to keep all the original features. Deco ceiling roses are in a state of restoration, so too the fancy balustrade that borders the stairs. We move deeper into the townhouse and the natural light that floods in from the back garden is exquisite. A grey day it might be, but this garden is both a sun-catcher and a green oasis in the middle of New York City.
A movement in the corner catches my eye and I’m drawn to it instinctively. Another man, sitting in a folding director’s chair, stands up.
It takes my mind longer than my body to recognise who it is.
My body knows straight away, of course, as proved by the way my nipples strain against the fabric of my shirt, and the way all of me pulses with need. Memories of our night together flood my brain and desire is instantly, obviously heavy in the room.
Ethan Ash stares back at me, a sexy smile on his face, like he’s waiting for me to speak. Or to jump him.
‘ETHAN...?’ THE WORD is an exhalation. A query, yes, but also a soft, muted groan.
He’s wearing jeans again. The same ones he was wearing the day I left? Saturday? Four days ago? Is that all? But he’s teamed them with a simple blue and white button-down shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his tanned forearms, and he’s got simple Nikes on his feet—nice shoes, but I miss his sexy bare feet instantly. His hair is in disarray, reminding me forcibly of how it looked after I’d run my fingers through it.
‘Thank you, Grayson.’
The man I met outside nods. ‘I’ll be out front.’
I turn to face Mr. Heynes, but he’s already disappearing back down the hallway we walked together.
‘My bodyguard,’ Ethan says, with a grin that is instantly disarming.
Usually I’d have something pithy to say in response to that, but I’m blindsided. Blindsided by the fact that I’m staring at the man I had the best sex of my life with—whom I thought I’d never see again. I thank the fashion gods that I chose to wear my favourite black jersey dress today, teamed with sky-high Louboutins and a chunky gold necklace. It’s an outfit that always leaves me feeling confident.
I haven’t said anything in a really long time, and his smile has turned into a frown. A little line has dug its way between his thick brows.
I look away quickly, needing to gather my wits—urgently. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s my place,’ he says simply,
