I could send my gaze to the floor and hide behind my hair. But I’ve learned it’s best to keep eye contact, give the awkward moment life, and let it breathe until the temptation to gawk is satisfied.
He frowns. “I shouldn’t be here.” He continues to squint. Or glare. Either his parents never taught him that staring is impolite, or he just doesn’t give a crap about social etiquette. He sucks in a breath and pushes his hair off his face. The longish pieces go back into place as if trained to do so. One rebellious lock falls forward just enough to give him that disheveled model look—oh, that’s it. I bet he’s a model. This is New York, after all, and he is, without a doubt, too pretty to be just some rich guy.
He looks around the room, taking in the couch, sink, bathroom. “Is this… your house?” His voice is scratchy, and I wonder if it always sounds like that or if the gravel in his tone is the result of a long night.
“No. You’re at City Hospice.” I startle when he suddenly pushes to stand. He wipes his palms against his backside and then his abdomen as if to rid himself of the bed’s death cooties. Looking back at the bed with a grimace, he stumbles a step forward and grips the wall to steady himself. And yep, he’s big. Tall. His well-fitting slacks and button-up shirt hug his form enough for me to see he’s long and muscled. Definitely a model. And not catalog. No, this guy is Versace. I wonder why his clothes aren’t more wrinkled, how he kept his shirt from coming untucked, and how a man can be such a hot mess and still look fresh off a photoshoot.
He pats his pockets, first front, then back. He freezes, and his head falls back on a curse that tosses his whole body off center, causing him to stagger. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters. “My phone and wallet are gone.” He turns an accusing glare my way. “Do you know where my stuff is?”
“You’re serious.” I laugh. “You think I’d steal your phone and your wallet and then bring you inside for safe keeping?” I scoff when he doesn’t immediately answer. “What’s the last thing you remember from last night?”
His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink, and he looks me up and down. I watch a flicker of panic cross his eyes.
“You don’t remember.” I lift my brows for confirmation, and his flinch gives him away.
His shoulders slump, and he shakes his head as if reprimanding himself. “Look, whatever happened between us… It was a mistake, and I—”
“Ew. You think we had sex?”
His gaze snaps to mine. “I mean, I don’t know—”
“No!” Now it’s my face that’s flaming. I don’t know if I’m insulted that he thinks I’d have sex with a man blackout drunk or if I’m flattered that a man this beautiful would assume sex with me was a possibility.
“Wait…” He tilts his head and glares at me through one eye. “Did you say ew?”
“I found you passed out cold in an alley. All manner of things could’ve happened to you, but I promise that sex with me wasn’t one of them.”
He seems preoccupied looking for his shoes, and I wonder if he even heard me.
“But I can’t speak for what happened before I found you.”
He shakes his head and then groans and grips his temples. “Shit, what time is it?”
“Six fifteen.”
“A.M.?” He side-eyes me.
“Yes.”
He mumbles all sorts of things, something about being late and someone killing him. “I need money for a cab back to Manhattan.”
Of course he lives in Manhattan.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“You want me to just give you money?”
“I said I’d pay you back.” Now that he’s a little more alert, I can see his eyes are pale hazel. “Trust me. I’m good for it.”
“That I believe. I’ll get you an Uber.” I slip my phone from the pocket of my scrubs. With my eyes on the screen, I feel him studying my face, and I regret wearing my hair in a ponytail.
It’s easy to forget what you look like when you spend most of your time around dying people. The beautiful people of the world are a constant reminder of all the ways I don’t measure up, and I don’t need that shit in my life.
He’s still staring, so I look him boldly in the eye. He doesn’t look away. What is this guy’s deal? “You can wait outside.”
“Can I use the bathroom?”
“If I say no, are you just going to pee on my wall out in the alley like everyone else?”
He shrugs.
I groan. “Fine.”
He moves past me. I watch as his eyes settle on my scar. This time, I duck my head and scurry out of the room.
Two
Kingston
Coffee. Aspirin. Water. Food.
Nothing helps to relieve the massive hangover I woke up with. That’s not exactly true—I woke up still drunk, and the worst of the hangover didn’t kick in until I got home.
I try not to think too hard about how I ended up passed out in a Brooklyn alley because my head feels like it’s going to explode and thinking makes it worse.
I check the time on my Cartier, the one that goes perfectly with my Dolce three-piece silk suit in the black and white floral pattern. As I walk through the lobby of North Industries, trying to hide how every step slams my brain against my skull, the sneers I get from the suit-wearing stiffs confirm that my first-day-of-work outfit does not disappoint.
Kimberly at reception blushes as I prop my forearms on her desk. “Good morning, Miss Kim.”
She tucks her hair behind her ears and tries to look anywhere but at me. “Mr. North.” She smiles too wide. “It’s not morning.”
“Eh, whatever.” I lean in a little closer. “You look stunning today.”
Her blush bleeds to her neck and chest, and I find the visual quite appealing. It doesn’t take much to make a woman feel attractive and wanted. And I get a shit ton of satisfaction from making them feel this way.
“Mr. North is expecting you,” she says.
“I figured.” I sigh loudly, and there’s nothing pretend about the sentiment. I do not want to be here. And everyone knows it. “Which one?”
Her delicately arched eyebrows pinch together as she studies her touchscreen. “Alexander.”
I relax a little. Of all the great North men, Alex is one of the lesser of four evils. My brother Hayes and my dad, August, are at the top of the asshole pyramid, while my other brother Hudson is at the very bottom.
“Thank you, Miss Kim.”
She answers with a girlie giggle and a finger wave as I move beyond her desk to the bank of elevators. Losing every bit of what little good mood I had, I step onto the elevator that leads to the executive offices and feel like I’m walking into my own slaughter.
I punch the top floor button, then lean back against the wall and close my eyes. You have to do this, I tell myself for the zillionth time. August made it clear that I have two choices. Work for North Industries or go back to Europe and live with my mom and her boy toy. The prospect alone makes me want to toss this morning’s espresso and quiche Lorraine all over the glass and mirrored walls.