Ahh, the day’s looking up already.
“Has business slowed down now that we’re past the Fourth of July holiday?”
“Yes, thank heavens!” My favorite barista says, her long locs tied back, her whole vibe pure Lisa Bonet—earthy, cool, effortless. “I was actually able to close the bar down for a few days and rest. We made so much money, I could finally breathe.”
“Oh, good!”
She slides behind the counter, pulling the ingredients for my usual.
“So, how’s it been living in that fancy Fury building now that you’ve been there a couple of weeks?"
“Honey! It’s out of this world luxury! I honestly had no clue concierge services for grocery shopping and laundry were even a thing!”
“When Logan Fury’s name is on it, you don’t need much of an imagination. Everything’s at your fingertips in those places.
“And how wouldyouknow?” I ask, leaning in, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
She hands me my drink with a sly smile. “I may have had a night or two with a certain tenant,” she says with a wink.
“You little hussy! Spill it!”
She shakes her head, laughing. “No, seriously. I can’t. NDA.”
“You had to sign an NDA for a booty call?”
She shrugs, casual as can be. “Rich people are weird.”
“You can say that again.”
I say goodbye to Holly and step out onto the sidewalk, phone in hand, scanning for my driver.
Another perk I managed to slip into my contract. Growing up in NYC, I never reallyhadto learn how to drive, and after a few failedlessons and one time where I sort of rear-ended an old lady on foot, I figured—why start now? Having a driver just made sense.
I spot the town car parked a few yards down, engine idling. I’m about to head toward it when something catches the corner of my eye.
A man.
Not just any man.
Him.
At least...it looks like him.
Salt-and-pepper curls, a little longer on top, the kind you want to run your fingers through. That signature low, five o’clock shadow that somehow makes him look even more dangerous in daylight. And a suit. Damn. Dark, perfectly cut, hugging all the right places.
My heart jerks hard in my chest. It can’t be him. It’s not possible.
I didn’t tell him where I lived—that I was moving to Atlanta. IknowI didn’t.
Did I?
I rack my brain, tracing back to that night in Vegas. No. No way. I was too careful. Too guarded. I didn’t even give him my last name.
There’s no way he could know.
Right?
But now? Now, he’s striding out of the building across the street. My building.