“Hey! Watch it, jackass,” I shout at the disappearing taillights of the taxi that splashed freezing rainwater all over me. It’s the first week of April and the weather should start warming up any day now, but I’m still waiting. Betty—my bike—creaks as I cycle faster in an attempt to keep my rapidly numbing legs warm. I swear she’s going to completely give out on me one day soon.
“Just a few more weeks, baby,” I say quietly, giving the frame a gentle tap. “As soon as I get my big break, I’ll retire you.”
Turning right, I head toward Central Park. Where do tired old bicycles retire to anyway? The scrap heap? Not my Betty. I give her another reassuring pat on her handlebars. “Maybe you can be one of those bougie garden ornaments at some fancy house in the country,” I whisper as the imposing WXZ building comes into view.
In the lobby, I’m hit by a rush of warm air. Oh, that’s nice. Pulling off my helmet, I shake out my curls and sigh. I hate wearing this thing, but I love my undamaged brain more, so …
After parking Betty at a bike rack near the stairway, I open the zipper on my coat and study the fancy interior on my way to the reception desk. I’ve cycled past this building thousands of times and have always wondered what it looked like inside. It’s exactly how I imagined it would be. All glass and steel and marble. Cold and detached. Much like the three men who own it, I suspect.
A stern-looking man wearing a dark gray suit and a powder blue tie sits behind the desk, eyeing me as I approach. “Can I help you?”
I reach for the thick padded envelope in my backpack. “I have a delivery for Mr. Archer. It requires his signature.”
“I can take it to him,” someone says, walking up behind me.
I roll my eyes. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that. Exactly what part of his signature do people not understand? I spin around. “It needs his …” Holy mother of fucknuggets. Did this guy just walk off a photoshoot for some fancy designer cologne? My jaw hangs open, the rest of the sentence caught in my mouth as I try not to drool.
He cocks an eyebrow at me, no doubt used to eliciting this kind of reaction from women. “It needs?”
“H-his …” I swallow the dreamy sigh that wants to roll from my lips. Straightening my shoulders, I tilt my chin and look him in the eyes, which has to be safer than staring at that chiseled jaw. “Signature.”
One corner of his mouth curls up, and damn if it doesn’t make him look even more handsome. “I can sign it on his behalf.” He holds out his hand, and I tighten my grip on the white envelope. I tilt my head, studying his features more thoroughly now that I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to his presence—as accustomed as any straight, red-blooded woman could be, anyway. “Are you Mr. Archer?”
That half smile turns into a full-on smirk, and my knees almost buckle. How does this man get through everyday life looking like he does? Do women just drop their panties when he walks past them in the street? “No. But trust me when I tell you that he won’t mind me signing for his papers.” He edges closer until he’s invading my personal space, not so much that it would appear obvious, but just enough that I feel it. In every single part of my body. He smells good too. What is that? Cologne? Or maybe he just naturally smells as good as he looks because the stars were in perfect alignment the day he was born.
“So?” he asks, reminding me that he’s waiting for my answer.
I want to clear my throat so I can be sure my voice won’t come out in a squeak, but that would clue him in on the effect he has on me. I’ll be damned if I let this arrogant, good-looking stranger think he has me rattled. “It requires Mr. Archer’s signature,” I reply, my voice surprisingly calm and steady despite my trembling knees.
He laughs softly.
“Can you tell me where I’ll find him?”
He runs one hand over his jaw, his narrowed eyes searching my face like he’s assessing whether I’m worthy enough to meet the great West Archer. Like I’d even want to meet that heartless douchebag by choice. I’d rather deliver his package inside a flaming bag of dog turds than hand it to him myself, but this is my job and it’s the only one I have—for now. So, what is this guy’s deal?
After the longest few seconds of my life, Hot Guy finally speaks. “Sure, I’m headed to his office myself. I’ll show you the way.” He inclines his head toward the elevators, then turns and walks away. With a quick glance at the guy behind the desk, who nods his approval, I fall into step beside Hot Guy.
We step inside the elevator a few moments later, and he leans against the back wall, hands splayed out on either side of him, gripping the polished chrome handrail. The elevator is bigger than the kitchen I ate my breakfast in this morning, but he still manages to dominate the entire space. I stand in the corner, as far from him as possible, and try to ignore the way he’s watching me, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.
A flush creeps over my cheeks as I become painfully aware of my appearance. The left leg of my jeans and the bottom of my thick coat is soaking wet. I’ve cycled twenty-eight miles today and this is my last stop, so no doubt my hair is at peak crazy. In sharp contrast, he’s groomed to perfection. Clean shaven. Sandy blond hair, styled within an inch of its life. His white shirt is crisp and crease-free. He wears an impeccably tailored suit and the finest leather shoes. I might be penniless right now, but I have plenty of experience with the finer things in life and enough knowledge of men like this one here to know that he has the kind of wealth that makes him untouchable. It also makes women like me easily dispensable.
My skin grows hot under his gaze. “For a place this fancy, you’d think they’d have better security.” I say, the need to take back control of the situation too strong for me to ignore.
His brow furrows in a slight frown. “Huh?”
I offer a casual shrug. “I mean I could be anyone. I could have all kinds of nasty stuff in this envelope here.” I hold it up to emphasize my point.
He pushes himself off the wall, and in one step he’s standing right in front of me. “Are you anyone, Lily?” My name rolls off his tongue like a raindrop from a leaf.
“H-how do you know my n-name?”
He glances down at my chest, which heaves with the effort of breathing. “It’s on your ID badge.”
My gaze follows his and intense relief washes over me. Of course it is.
“And do you have any nasty stuff in that envelope of yours?” His voice takes on a completely different tone, one that makes me regret saying that. His whole demeanor has shifted.
Dear god, I can’t breathe. If smiley Hot Guy was hot, then growly Hot Guy with a hint of danger is pure fire. I shake my head, making my curls bounce around my shoulders. “Just papers.”
He gives me a satisfied smile and steps back, his eyes locked on mine as he returns to his position against the rail.
