“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 8
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.