One of Julian’s hidden talents was diffusing tension between Roman and Moira, who often looked like they wanted to kill one another. In other words, Julian was currently present at this meeting because I knew he’d distract Roman and Moira from fighting too much.

  "Let's focus on the task at hand," I said, my voice low but serious.

  Roman, Julian, and Moira all straightened in their seats, eyes on me.

  "You said we could acquire all these lots, Roman?" I asked, touching my fingertip to the map. "If you're right, this move would nearly double our footprint in Manhattan. Each of these lots is absolutely massive. We could fit two or three skyscrapers in this space... We would be in the green for years with projects like that."

  "Possibly," Roman said carefully. "See, these lots currently house old factories that aren’t in use. A shoe factory, a leather factory, and a rubber factory, to be exact. The guy who owned them was named Marcellus Davenport. He was really hands-on and made millions during his life running these places. But he's old now."

  "Generously seasoned?" Julian suggested.

  Roman glared but continued. "Anyway, he's so generously seasoned that he is going to die soon, and he knows it. But the guy has no heirs. No family. If he died tomorrow, the land would pass to the city, which would probably use it for some public bullshit."

  Julian shook his head in disapproval. "Civics aren't bullshit, man. Did you ride bullshit to the office today? Do you call bullshit for help when your house is on fire?"

  "I paid my driver to bring me to work today," Roman said. "And my house has never been on fire."

  "To our collective disappointment," Moira added.

  "So he dies," I cut in. "And the land goes to the city. I'm assuming there's an 'unless' here."

  "There is," Roman said. "I found a little legal loophole... If we play our cards right, we could become the default inheritors of those lots. All we would need to do is wait for this guy to croak and⁠—"

  "Croak?" Julian said, throwing up his hands. "We wait for him to transition from life to death gently. Kick his last can. Leave his meat sack behind."

  "Those are all terrible," Moira said.

  "What is the loophole?" I asked.

  "In the absence of heirs and inheritors, the property would pass to a property management company... So if we can convince him to let us spruce up the places in any way, we would become the de facto inheritors of the property when he leaves his meat sack behind."

  "That seems kind of immoral," Julian said. "Like we're tricking this old man into leaving us his factories?"

  Moira squinted. "You think he'll care if his factories go to us or the city when he's dead?"

  "He could," Julian said. "I don't know about you, but I have no interest in being haunted. I once took a ghost tour in St. Augustine and went to this lighthouse. I swear on my nana I saw a ghost. Granted, there was some drinking involved, but maybe that just opened up my senses to the other side, you know?"

  "No," Moira said. "We don't know."

  "Enough," I said. "I want this to become our top priority. Roman, get with legal and make sure this loophole is iron-clad. I don't want to pursue this only to find out it won't hold up in court. Moira, I want you to take the next week to find the right person to meet with this old guy. I need somebody who can charm him. Somebody who can convince him this is something he needs. Julian, you're going to work up a project proposal. Give Moira a plan of action to send with the person she chooses—sell him on why he needs us to work for him on this project. Understood?"

  Roman and Moira simply nodded, both of their eyes lit with obvious hunger and excitement at the opportunity to prove themselves. Julian sat back in his chair, face grim. "Damn it. I'm going to get haunted for this, aren't I?"

  As they stood to leave, my phone buzzed. A text from Patricia Rosh, the CEO of Hate Notes…

  Patricia: My new girl seems to be your match, doesn’t she? Too much integrity to take your bribes? Or have you simply given up trying to win?

  I curled my lip in annoyance. The damn woman had my number because of Remmy, who thought it would be funny for us to communicate. So far, the communications were entirely one-sided, but it irked me every time Rosh texted me to gloat.

  "Sir?" Julian lingered in the doorway. "Just... hypothetically, if Mr. Davenport's ghost did come after us, would that be covered under our current insurance policy?"

  "Out," I said, but found myself fighting a smile. Strange. I never used to find Julian's nonsense amusing.

  Then again, I never used to find much of anything amusing until lately.

  I blamed my own ghost in red for that. Julian may be worried about getting haunted by the ghost of Marcellus Davenport, but my haunting was very real. A small, fiery woman in red waited outside my building for me every day. Every day, she became better at pushing my buttons and getting under my skin. Every day, she walked farther over the line.

  The worst part of all?

  There was an entirely irrational, entirely stupid part of me that looked forward to our brief interactions. Interacting with Ember was different. At times, I felt like an apex predator, feared and respected to such a degree that nobody dared look me in the eye or speak their mind to me. Ember, on the other hand, had no such fear. She stared up at me with defiance and mischief, and because of that, our interactions were of a flavor I couldn’t find anywhere else.

  And yet they were a distraction. She was a mind virus that was taking root somewhere deep in my brain and corrupting my ability to focus on what mattered most.

  With some effort, I pushed the small woman from my thoughts and brought my attention back to this new and exciting opportunity.

  “Marcellus Davenport,” I mused aloud. But even as I considered the implications of landing such a massive opportunity, Ember began slipping back into my thoughts again and again.

  I needed to do something about her. If only I knew what.

  9

  EMBER

  It was cold outside the Foster Real Estate building, the kind of bone-deep Manhattan cold that made me question all my life choices—especially the one about standing out here every morning to antagonize New York's most terrifying CEO. I had on my warmest green mittens, two coats, and a cute little hat to keep my head warm. As I read and rehearsed today's hate notes, I swayed and bounced from side to side to keep the chill from settling in, my breath forming little clouds in the frigid air.

  Last night's text from Cole still burned in my mind. His first message in days, and it was exactly what I should have expected—cold and transactional, demanding results with no emotion. No emojis to soften the blow, because God forbid Cole Northman show a hint of actual humanity.

  Asshole. The worst part wasn't even that he'd probably cheated before we broke up or that he was forcing me out of his company with this ridiculous assignment. What really stung was how the whole thing had left me unable to trust my own judgment. How was I supposed to date when I couldn't even trust myself to recognize when someone was manipulating me?

  My fractured ability to trust was on full display last night. Kora set me up with her cousin, who was finally in town and single at the right time for us to meet. He was handsome in that wholesome way that usually spelled trouble, polite enough to make my teeth hurt, and practically waving green flags with both hands. A year ago, I would have been all over that. Instead, I found myself searching his face for signs of the mask I'd missed with Cole.

  I told him I was too focused on work for it to be fair to date anyone, apologized, and broke things off before they even began. Sure, the work thing was partially true, but the real truth? I kept imagining how Cole had flipped a switch and changed. One day he was the perfect boyfriend, the next he was this cold stranger wearing Cole's face.

  I thought I knew him. I'd have bet money I knew the real Cole. Then he just... transformed.

  It was all I could think of on my date with Kora's cousin. Now I worried the brain disease Cole left me with would be terminal. I'd die alone—unless a drawer full of tastefully named vibrators and dildos counted as life partners. Even Catman had given me a judgmental look when I came home early from that date, his one good eye full of feline disappointment.

  A stir in the gathered crowd snapped me back to reality. Orion and his sister were approaching, and my heart did that stupid little flutter it had started doing lately. Not that I was bragging, but ever since I took over as his Hate Notes messenger, the morning crowd had been steadily growing. I liked to think it was because of my expert delivery. It might also have been the collective thrill of watching someone torment a man they feared too much to cross themselves.

  Orion was, as always, immaculate. His dark gray suit fit him like a glove, and his sharp jawline was a masterpiece carved from marble. I wasn't saying I was impressed or anything, but the man did have a certain aura that made you want to throw pencils at him just to see if he'd flinch. Spoiler: He wouldn't. He'd probably catch them mid-air without looking and use them to sign something important while maintaining eye contact.

  I waited while he said something to his sister, Remmy, whose bright smile always made her look more approachable than he'd ever be. Remmy rolled her eyes at him and headed toward me, her artistic soul apparent in her paint-splattered jacket and the way she moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear.

  She paused. "Got any good ones today?"

  "Very," I said, warming to her presence like I always did. "Oh, did you end up getting enough artists for that showcase tomorrow?" Yeah. That's right. I worked in a little small talk with Orion's sister each morning. We were practically friends by now.

  Remmy's face lit up. "Yes! We got the final artist to agree just in time. It's going to be amazing." She took a step as if to leave, then turned back. "Do you want to come?"

  Orion was still within earshot, and the look on his face told me all I needed to know. The muscle in his jaw ticked in that way that definitely didn't make my stomach do weird flips.

  "Yes," I said immediately, partly because I was genuinely interested and partly because of that delicious flash of annoyance in Orion's eyes. "Absolutely yes. What do I wear?"

  "Something a little fancy, but don't stress too much. If you look like a slob, people will just assume you're an artist trying to make a statement."

  "You can't invite her," Orion said, his voice clipped. The deep rumble of it did things to me that I refused to acknowledge.

  "She just did, Mr. Foster," I said sweetly. "Will you be attending?"

  "Yes, however⁠—"

  "Perfect. I'll see you there, then."

  "Ry," Remmy said, touching his chest with a knowing smile. "I doubt she's going to read you any hate notes while she's there. In fact, I think you two would get along amazingly if not for this little arrangement."

  Orion gave me one of his most withering, admittedly sexy glares. "No. I highly doubt that."

  "Yeah," I agreed. "I have a strict policy when it comes to associating with turds." I cupped my hand around my mouth and whispered, "I don't associate with them. Sorry, Orion."

  A ripple of laughter moved through the gathered crowd. Orion's jaw ticked, his nostrils flared, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of the storm brewing in his icy blue eyes. If looks could kill, I'd have been vaporized on the spot.

  Remmy gave him a pat on the arm. "Good luck with her, Ry. And if you make an excuse to skip the gallery, I'll know you're full of shit—and I will never forgive you." She smiled sweetly, then strolled off toward her building, leaving us to our usual morning routine.

  I cleared my throat and raised the first note, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing. The crowd of onlookers raised their phones, eyes lit with excitement.

  "Dear Mr. Foster..." I tried to ignore how his cologne seemed to cut through the winter air, making it hard to focus on the words in front of me. “When I was a kid, I watched the Terminator movies and had nightmares for years about robots taking over and killing us all. Ever since I started working for you at Foster Real Estate, those nightmares have ended. So maybe I should thank you. But I still dream about robots taking over. Except now they have impeccably combed hair, calendar-coordinated clothing rotations, and follow everybody around demanding they think about nothing but work. Last night, I dreamed you were standing outside my shower and shouting every time I missed a spot with the soap. Next, you pulled back the curtain, revealing you were completely nak…"

  I trailed off, cheeks burning as I skimmed the rest of the note. The winter air suddenly felt a lot warmer. "What the hell is this?" I asked as onlookers chuckled and shared looks.

  "Sexual advances are where you draw the line?" Orion asked, voice rough in a way that made my skin tingle. "But you'll happily read the rest of these idiotic notes to me?"

  Now it was my turn to glare. He really should know by now that challenging me wasn't a wise move. "I wasn't done," I said, lifting the note higher and projecting my voice as I continued to read, trying to ignore how his eyes darkened.

  “You were completely naked. Your body glistened from the steam of the shower, and your well-endowed manhood hung with a weighty girth I only dared imagine until that point. You took it in your hand and began to stroke yourself as you watched me, making sure I applied the soap generously and vigorously to every. Last. crevice.

  “Then, you took me in your arms and dragged me to my bed. You taught me what it meant to be a man—” I paused to let the crowd snicker at that part. “Plot twist, right?” I said, diving back into the note as Orion’s expression darkened.

  “You took me in so many positions that I lost count. But before I could finally orgasm, you lowered your lips to my ear and whispered these words.

  “I need that TPS report by Thursday, or your ass is fired.

  “And then I woke up. So, screw you for being such an asshole that you can’t even get a sexy dream right.”

  I lowered the card with a grin as the assembled onlookers laughed, though my heart was racing. Something had shifted in the air between us, making it harder to breathe.

  Orion was giving me a look that made heat pool low in my belly. His eyes held mine with an intensity that said he was hoping he had suddenly developed laser vision just so he could incinerate me where I stood.

  I straightened and shuffled my little deck of cards, using the motion to hide how my hands shook. "Think we'll have any more pervy ones this morning? Because that was fun."

  "Enough," he said, turning and walking toward the building with long strides that made his perfectly tailored pants do interesting things around the shape of his muscular thighs and ass.

  "You know I'm going to follow you," I called after him, hurrying to keep up. "When you lead me into the building, it just makes me think you like being alone in the elevator with me. Do I smell good? Is that it?”

  Orion cut me a look that should have killed me, but I smiled cheerily back. I was playing with fire and I knew it. The problem was, I'd always liked getting burned

  I flipped the stack of cards until I landed on one that had my handwriting. I had scribbled this on my walk here today, and it was my desperate attempt to fast-track this whole scheme of mine.

  “Mr. Foster,

  “That girl who reads you Hate Notes is really pretty, charming, funny, and such a great dresser. I also think it’s super admirable that she never accepts your bribes, even though she’s probably super poor and could absolutely use the money. Have you ever considered that she might be hoping for an offer other than money? Maybe you should widen your bribery horizons and get creative. Hmm? Just a thought.

  “Oh, and while we’re just giving thoughts… Have you ever considered lightening up? I can’t believe you can listen to these notes every morning and still refuse to change. It’s either impressive or the greatest single act of stubbornness in human history.”

  I looked up from the card as the elevator doors closed in front of us.

  Orion stared at me. “What is it you want, Ember?”

  Even hearing my name on his mouth did things to me that weren’t entirely unpleasant. I pushed through the feelings and gave a snarky smile. “Mr. Foster…I’m a proper woman. I don’t just come out and say what I want.”

  He clenched his jaw so hard I thought I heard his teeth groaning. “Sex? Is that what you’re after? You’re trying to… seduce me?”

  I sputtered with laughter. “No, no. God, no.” My first laughs had been genuine, but the combination of the weird sex dream I just read and the looming, brooding, admittedly sexy presence of the man-made the last laughs come out with a fake tinge.

  I swallowed, going suddenly quiet. “No. That’s not what I was trying to get at.”

  “Then what?”

  “A job,” I said. “A real job. Not this… Hate notes crap. I could work for you. I’m actually qualified. I brought my resume incase—” Orion snatched the resume from my hand as soon as I produced it from my messenger bag.

  He folded it carefully down the middle once, twice, then stuffed it in his suit pocket. The elevator dinged.

  “I will consider your request,” he said, stepping off the elevator. “And Ember?” he added.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m asking you not to come to the art gallery tomorrow.”

  The doors begun closing, so I cupped a hand to my ear and smiled. “What was that? I couldn’t hear⁠—”

  The doors shut as I smiled wider to myself. If Orion was so worried about me coming to the gallery, then I had to go. That much was a given. Even if a small voice in my head whispered that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to go for reasons that had nothing to do with my original plan.

 

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