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 9
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 the 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.
I take the subway to Midtown, emerging into the bright July morning with a spring to my step and hope in my heart.
And Christian Pierce on my mind.
Bennett Walker turns out to be several inches shorter than I am, a concentrated ball of energy waiting to take on the day. He greets me as soon as I enter the building lobby. “Bennett Walker,” he says, holding out his free hand. In the other hand, he carries a leather portfolio. “Everyone calls me Walker. Feel free.”
“Quinn Campbell.” He rocks up and down on the balls of his feet, always ready to speed off in a different direction.