Marnie
The city’s alive in a way that’s almost too vivid, every window blazing with stories, every street smeared with red tail lights, every dark alley a gaping mouth. I stand at the curb, phone clutched in one hand, brown bag in the other, and tell myself for the tenth time that I can still back out. But I don’t. I take a deep breath and step into the lobby of Brent’s luxury high rise.
The air smells rich somehow, like polish and money, as the concierge smiles politely.
“Go on up, Ms. Williams. He’s expecting you.”
Oh my god, Brent gave them special instructions! But I teeter to the elevator bank in high heels, and like magic, the burnished doors part soundlessly and swallow me whole. My reflection stares back in the mirrored walls, not quite me but not quite not, either. I look taller than I remember, all legs and hips andmouth, hair loose and glossy from the kind of blowout you only buy when you’re about to risk it all.
The elevator whisks me upward at a speed that does something weird to my organs, and for a split second I imagine I’m being launched to the moon, or heaven, or the place where women go when they want to lose themselves. The doors open on the private landing leading to Brent’s penthouse, and in a moment, the alpha male appears.
He’s framed by the glow of the apartment like a Renaissance oil, all harsh bone structure and blue-black shadow. He’s not in a suit, for once, but expensive jeans and a shirt that shows off his chest—broad, tanned, perfectly ridged—on proud display. There’s a gold watch on his wrist. He’s barefoot, and somehow this makes him twice as dangerous.
“Marnie,” he rasps, as if he’s been waiting all week for this exact second. His voice is a velvet trap.
I blink. “Hi,” I manage. “It’s good to see you.”
He glances past me, then back. “You bring what I asked?”
I hold up the brown bag. “Sixteen-year Lagavulin. As requested, sir.”
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine, and for a second my knees forget their job. His touch is rougher than I expect, but the gratitude in his eyes is real. “I like a woman who follows instructions.”
“I wasn’t aware there were instructions,” I quip, but the joke’s hollow, all my bravado gone to hell.
Brent motions me inside. The penthouse is as beautiful as before, but I hardly see it: slate floors, leather so dark it eatslight, and sculptures that look like they were forged by warring gods. The art is original, and every window is floor-to-ceiling, making the whole place feel like it floats a mile above the city, untethered from gravity.
But of course, I’m completely focused on the alpha male before me. He hands me a flute of champagne, poured from a bottle so cold it stings my palm. The glass is thin enough to shatter with a look. “Take a seat,” Brent says, indicating the sectional sofa, which is wide enough to sleep a rugby team. “James will be here in a minute.”
I perch at the edge, careful not to let my skirt ride up past indecency, and sip the champagne. The bubbles are tiny, the flavor like apples and something else, something expensive. I smooth my hands over my lap, double-check that my blouse is still covering the essentials, and make a mental note that I’m here. I’m excited. And I can’t wait for the evening to begin.
Brent watches me from the bar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He doesn’t talk, just studies me, blue eyes tracing my throat, my mouth, the way my legs cross and uncross. It’s not the cold, analytical gaze of a boss. It’s more intimate than that. It’s the look of a man who’s read the blueprint and is now planning the demolition.
“Nice shoes,” he says after a long silence.
I look down, startled. “Thanks. The stilettos are new.”
“They look like trouble.”
I feel the urge to say something clever, but my brain short-circuits. “That’s the idea,” I hear myself say.
He smiles, the kind that crinkles the edges of his eyes. “Good.”
There’s a buzz at the door. Brent strides over, opens it without breaking eye contact with me, and James steps in.
James is in charcoal slacks and a black T-shirt, the sleeves hugging biceps that are, frankly, absurd for a lawyer. His hair’s a little mussed, like he just rolled out of a fight or a bed. He’s carrying a battered leather folder, thick with documents.
“Evening, sweetheart,” he says, dropping the folder on the glass coffee table with a thud. “It’s good to see you.”
“Hi,” I murmur. “Nice to see you too.”
James’s black eyebrow goes up. “Nervous?”
I shake my head. “No, of course not.”
He sits, sprawling out next to me, close enough that our knees almost touch. Brent brings over his whiskey, sits on my other side, and the three of us form a loose, charged triangle. For a minute, no one speaks.
Then James says, “You want to see it?”
