There’s never going to be a love of my life.
It’s just not in the cards for Christian Pierce.
Not now, not ever.
Because that would mean…
I shake my head sharply. I’m not going to think about it.
What I need to do is focus on my job. On my friends. I have plans for a group to go to the Swan tonight. I’m bringing Melody. She doesn’t work for Pierce Industries. Partners have been known to bring women who are “temping as assistants” with them to the gala to liven things up.
It worked.
But the main thing I care about is that when I end things with Melody—and I will end things, in three dates or less—it won’t become an issue at the office. She gets what she wants. I get the distraction I want. No workplace drama.
Except in my own goddamned head.
If I’m really being honest with myself, I don’t want to go to the Swan with Melody. I want to go back in time and ask Quinn Campbell if she’ll be my date instead.
I’d break the rules for her.
No. Fuck no.
Even having the thought chills me to the core, and for the hundredth time today, I wonder how the hell a woman I saw for twenty minutes has such a hold over me.
It’s not love. I’m not in love with her. I just want her. I’m intrigued by her. I want to know more about her. I want to know what made her decide to drag that massive suitcase through the rain in SoHo. I want to know what made her flinch when I touched her arm. I want to know why she was more worried about her things becoming litter than about saving any of them. Where did she come from, that when her life was splattered all over a New York City intersection, she didn’t even cry?
Maybe she’s just tough.
Or maybe there’s more to know about her.
I could look her up. I give Stephanie, my assistant, a nod as I go past her and into my office. No. I dismiss the idea. I’m not going to go chasing some woman all over the city just to…
Just to what? Take her on three dates, and then leave her behind like all the rest?
Something tells me it won’t be that easy.
But I can’t afford for it to be difficult.
I absolutely cannot allow those kinds of complications into my life, because if I were to fall in love…
I could fall in love with her.
I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. This is crazy. This kind of thinking—it’s just going to get me into trouble.
Those captivating green eyes have sucked me in. The confident way she stood, the way she spoke, imprinted itself on my mind, and I can’t forget her.
Quinn Campbell.
“Stop,” I say out loud, bringing my hand down on the surface of my desk, and moments later Stephanie appears at the door.
“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 7
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.”