“I’m sorry?”
“The code. For the penthouse. 04?—”
“Oh! Of course! 041914. Got it.”
Amara takes the two suits plus the stained shirt with her and hurries out of the office. Even after she is gone, my nerves are sizzling. Not just from anger, though I am pissed. I should be heading home for the day. Grabbing a stiff drink and turning my brain off for all of five seconds before switching hats for the night. I should be eating a steak from anywhere but the fuckingChophouse and ignoring everyone with a pulse, especially my fucking father.
But instead I am headed to another “family dinner” where more problems will be dropped in my lap for me to deal with.
Hopefully, this time, there’s less mess to clean up.
And no more blood to rinse out of my collars.
4
AMARA
Zero. Four. One. Nine. One. Four.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The deadbolt turns and it’s almost like the penthouse lets out a breath as I push the door open slowly. It’s the same high as a robber on a bank heist movie gets when they crack into the safe. Like, I am most definitely not supposed to be here, but my whole life has led up to me being here, and God, it feels pretty damn good.
It’s not the first time I’ve been in Ransome’s penthouse, though it’s a rare enough occurrence that every timefeelslike the first. The thing I always notice immediately is the smell. It’s posh as fuck, if that’s a thing a smell can be. It goes with the whole vibe: we’re talking sleek, varnished flooring and stainless steel appliances, acres of marble countertoppage and a couch that looks deep enough to swallow me whole. All the furniture is leather. The windows, floor-to-ceiling like in his office at Apex, don’t open, so the air inside is made up of his exhales. His pheromones.Him.
Salt. Cedar. A touch of musk.
My thighs feel hot just from the scent.
It’s neither overstated nor understated, with just enough art on the walls to feel like a capital-SSomeonelives here. A Someone with taste and money and status.
I wander through the place, only daring to look, not to touch, even though I want to touch so badly. There’s a guitar hanging on the wall in his bedroom. I always glance at that guitar. I wonder if he plays it. I wonder if his fingers have slid up and down the fretboard. If his other hand has plucked the strings. And then I wonder what that would feel like…
I set the dry cleaning down on the counter, suddenly very much needing a glass of water. I am not too concerned about him knowing I used a glass from his pristinely organized kitchen cabinet—I take extra special care to clean anything of his I use while I am here.
I fill the glass and drink, then wash and dry it, then run a paper towel around the basin of the sink so he doesn’t see it freshly wet. Part of me desperately wants to leave a lipstick stain on the rim of the glass, but I tell myself that’d be a very bad idea.
Ransome has a bundle of fresh oranges in his fridge at all times. The OCD girl in me, the one who spent most of her life taking care of three younger siblings, shopping and cooking for them, is always tempted to take them out of the fridge and set them on the counter. Citrus doesn’t need to be refrigerated. But I wouldn’t dare correct him.
I made that mistake once, four days after being hired. He asked me to order lunch from a nearby Thai place. When I told him they were out of the curry chicken he usually ordered, he askedfor Singapore noodles. They prepare them in three heat levels—mild, hot, and Thai hot. He asked for Thai hot and I asked if he was sure.
Ransome looked me dead in the eyes, pulling his attention away from his schedule (which was already a blaring warning sign), and said, “What are you presuming, Miss Parker? Do I look like a man who doesn’t know what he wants?”
I ducked my head, ordered the Thai hot, and never corrected him again.
I am not supposed to linger when I am at the penthouse. Go in, hang the dry cleaning, leave. He’s never said that in those exact words, but like everything else Ransome Rozanov communicates through presence alone, it’s very much insinuated.
Sighing, I take the dry cleaning to his closet. Two fresh-pressed suits that I picked up from the cleaners after dropping the others off. My mind wanders back to the red shirt from earlier. To the way he just left it hanging open while he put on his socks and shoes. The way his abs rippled and flexed as he moved. It felt sodomesticstanding there with him, watching him dress and then undress again when I pointed out the spot on the collar.
The spot that looked like blood.
I finger through the other red shirts, squinting for stains, but they’re all pristine. Everything smells like him. Like the soap in his shower. Like the cologne sitting on the shelf in the closet. I grab one of the white shirts from the middle of the line and spritz it with the cologne before rolling it up and heading for the door. He will be coming back soon and I don’t want to get caught lingering.
I’m never to linger. My rule, not his. He can’t know about the relationship we have. About my obsession for him.
I eye the glass on the counter, realizing it still needs to be washed. But then… I see it.
There is one door in Ransome Rozanov’s penthouse that is always closed. Always locked. It’s his home office and I’ve never been inside it. And right now, that door is ajar…
