“Sorry, you’re not allowed in here.”
I scan more faces and zone in on a middle-aged man holding an industrial-sized baking tray laden with steaming pastries fresh from the oven. “Please,” I beg him, moving deeper into the kitchen. “There’s a man… my ex. He’s chasing me. I need to get away.”
He tips his head to the far corner. “That way, go to the end of the corridor,” he says, just as Max bursts through the door. “Go!”
As I sweep past more staff, I hear a loud thump and a yell of pain I assume belongs to Max, followed by the soft pitter patter of pastries hitting the floor. I don’t look back. I run. And I keep running. I don’t stop until I reach my new apartment and bolt the door.
The adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins drains away all too quickly and I drop to my knees. I have to crawl to my bed where I curl into a ball and howl like a baby. Stupid, stupid girl. Why the hell did I gamble everything on a fairytale? Why did I gamble anything on a man? And not just any man, but the one who told me quite clearly he couldn’t offer anything except a night that lasted twenty-four hours with too many orgasms to count.
I stare at the sheath dress hanging on the closet door, the one I’d imagined wearing when I ‘accidentally,’ ran into Duke. But now when I picture myself wearing it, I’m standing next to an Amazonian woman with a big-as-fuck diamond on her finger. We both have dark hair, and although I’ve let mine grow to shoulder-length, hers is longer and glossier. We also share brown eyes, but that’s where the similarities end. She’s taller, younger, with bigger breasts and longer legs. I’d choose her over me too. I cry some more.
It's only when light starts to fade that I notice it’s evening. I still haven’t decided if I should pack my bags and go home or see this nightmare through. I could stay with Brooke while I serve notice on my new tenants. I planned for this. I just didn’t expect it to end so soon.
But if I don’t turn up for work tomorrow, my reputation is going to be in the gutter. And the humiliation of picking up my previous life would be just as bad, if not worse than staying here. Running into Duke was sheer bad luck, that’s all. It doesn’t mean I’ll see him again.
OK, it seems likely given I bumped into him after just one week in Chicago, but once I get over the initial shock, the next time we meet won’t be as bad. I didn’t come here to play out some silly love story. I came here to broaden my horizons, take risks, challenge myself, meet new people and build new skill sets.
A sob tears from my throat. Who am I trying to kid? I came here for Duke. I came here for a dream that was as fragile as gossamer thread. And now it’s gone.
I cry. And I cry some more.
Chapter 8
Grace
“Don’t look so worried,” Oliver says, twinkling his dazzling green eyes at me as we approach a glass-fronted entrance to the building I’d been loitering around for the last week.
“Easier said than done,” I reply.
I’d arrived at the DeVere office this morning, my eyes gritty but less swollen after bathing them in ice water and applying enough makeup to camouflage my heartache. I had my speech prepared. I was going to beg Noah to remove me from any and all Moncrief projects. I’d convince him I should prove my worth on a less prestigious client first, but Noah wasn’t in the office to hear my plea.
Oliver is one of DeVere’s architects and he’s been tasked with looking after me. His natural boyish charm and good looks don’t make it the worst start to a new job, but then again…
I’d barely had time to take off my coat when he announced we were going for a little stroll to their satellite office so he could show me the plans he’s been drawingup for the renovations at Corbyn House. This is the Brimstage project Noah had hired me to deliver… for the Moncriefs.
The entrance at the rear of the Excelsis looks like any other upmarket office complex. You wouldn’t know it was attached to one of Chicago’s most exclusive hotels, except maybe for the Moncrief’s Scots Pine logo etched across every goddamn window. Fuck. What the hell am I stepping into?
“I don’t feel prepared.”
“You’ll be fine,” Oliver assures me, resting a hand on my back as we approach the reception area.
Oliver is thirty-one, grew up in Chicago, but spent a year traveling around Europe with his ex-girlfriend before coming home to focus on his career. He’s presently single, and as is becoming apparent, he’s also a talker, for which I’m grateful because my heart is lodged in my throat.
“It took me months to stop feeling intimidated by the Moncriefs,” he confides.
I raise an eyebrow. “You? Intimidated? I don’t believe it.”
He rakes his fingers through his dirty blond hair. “Normally I’m not, but these guys are scary as fuck,” he whispers.
After being issued with a visitor’s pass and a promise of a permanent one by the end of the day, we move towards a bank of elevators.
“I was originally taken on for the Heatrush development,” Oliver says as we wait. “It’s a nightclub here in Chicago. I’ll take you there some time. It’s quite something if I do say so myself, and Calder was great to work with. He runs the club and doesn’t take life as seriously as some of the others.”
The name sends a shudder down my spine. Technically,Calder and I have already met, although we’d only glimpsed each other when he slipped Duke the condoms. It’s unlikely he’ll recognize me. Surely fate wouldn’t be that cruel.
My cheeks pale and Oliver gives my arm a squeeze as we step into the elevator. “Our office is three floors below the executives so you don’t need to face them yet. Noah was called in this morning and he’ll want to brief you before you meet Rory.”
Rory Moncrief is the eldest son of Gordon Moncrief, the patriarch and current Chairman of the Moncrief empire. From what I’ve been able to glean in my Google searches, there’s an expectation he’ll retire soon. Rory and Calder are the most talked about replacements, if only because they’re the only two children that have forward-facing roles in the company. The others keep out of the limelight judging by the lack of information online.
