Never Say Never, page 2
“Skylar” has never felt more natural than when he says it.
“I know Wilder’s renovating a new building. I can ask him when those apartments will be ready.”
“I want to own. Not rent. Besides, Wilder rents economy apartments. I can’t entertain clients in a five-hundred-square-foot shoe box.” The corner of his mouth curls up as if to soften his delivery just a little, and my gaze falls on the dimple in his cheek just before his smile fades away. He shakes his head. “Wilder.”
I don’t ask. I want to keep things professional. Addison is like a big sister to me, but she’s also my boss. I never pry into her personal life unless she brings it up first.
“I don’t think you’ve told me why you’re moving to the city.” I take a sip of icy cool coffee. The sweet mocha concoction slides down my throat and coats my stomach with a layer of frost, and for the first time in years, I don’t mentally calculate the calories. “Addison didn’t mention it either.”
“Ever heard of Performance Vodka?”
My brows scrunch as I take another sip. “Vaguely familiar.”
“It’s vodka infused with protein. Ten grams per ounce, which has never been done before. I majored in Chemistry back at Pepperdine with a minor in nutrition,” he explains. “I developed a type of ultra-fine, soluble whey protein powder that is completely tasteless in alcohol. Professional athletes or men and women who are watching their figure or lifting can still enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two and take in a little extra protein. I’m also developing on-the-go protein packets which can be mixed into beer and cocktails and even bottled water.”
“Wow.” Impressive.
He brings the mouth of his Styrofoam up to his lips, pulling in a careful swallow of his hot tea. “I have three international liquor corporations vying to buy me out. They want my products. They want my patents. They’re all trying to woo me, and the offers keep getting bigger and bigger.”
“What are you going to do?” I eye the street sign ahead. We’re getting closer to the next listing.
“I’m willing to sell a forty-nine percent share at this point,” he says. He glances down at a bold-faced watch on his left wrist, and something glints against the sun. Diamonds perhaps. “With the amount of capital and resources I’ll be getting from this merger, I’ll be able to develop more products - better products. I want to grow the Performance brand as much as possible before I cut ties. And I don’t know if I’ll ever want to cut ties. This is my life’s work right here.”
His passion and intelligence work in tandem, forcing me to re-evaluate my opinion about him. Still, he isn’t my type. The way he dresses – the way he carries himself – his new-money status. His arrogance.
Been there, done that. Never again.
Nina, my roommate, would tell me to never say never, but I don’t care. I’m saying it.
Never.
N.E.V.E.R.
“Over there.” I point to a green awning where a doorman stands in a charcoal suit and ivory gloves.
“The Mirabelle on Fifth,” he says, reading the name of the building etched across the awning. The doorman opens the door for us and Theo slips his hand across the small of my back. My breath hitches for a second, and I ignore the zing of electricity radiating from his touch.
The moment we step off the elevator and onto the fifteenth floor, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Mila. I was wondering when you were going to be checking up on me. I’m lost without you keeping me in line here.” His entire demeanor shifts, and I can almost hear a smile in his voice. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”
He has a girlfriend. Of course he does.
That settles that.
I pull in a sharp breath, almost relieved my mind will get a break from all its nonsensical wondering. Loneliness fills me most days, coursing through me like an incurable disease and making me dream up silly fantasies and size up every hot-blooded man I come into contact with.
Everyone is a prospect when you’re so lonely it hurts.
But I’ll never stop looking for him.
She’s so inexperienced it’s almost cute. She reminds me of a little girl walking around in her mother’s high heels and pearls, looking equal parts young and grown up all at once. Skylar has this baby face, this innocent quality about her, and yet she is all woman.
Everything about her is soft – the way she moves, the way she speaks.
And she intrigues the hell out of me.
I’ve only spent part of a morning with her, but there are times when she glances my way and I see this young, naïve girl. And then a minute later she’ll say something mature and she’ll flash a sexy, confident smile potent enough to make my cock harden for a second.
She’s guarded and reserved, and she’s not throwing herself at me like most women of her likeness do. Skylar’s stare says I repulse her but her parted lips say I turn her on, and I’m quite certain she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
I can’t figure her out.
But I’m not here to figure her out. I’m here to find a place to live.
I hang up with my assistant, Mila, and slip my phone back into my pocket as I follow Skylar down a long hallway of nearly identical white apartment doors. I wait as she picks up a blue lockbox and punches in a code, exhaling softly as she retrieves the key and fumbles with the lock.
A pungent odor hits us in the face. It reeks as if someone has sprayed the entire apartment in a cat piss brine. Skylar’s hand sails over her nose and mouth as I cough into my elbow. The tang of whatever the hell that God-awful smell was lingers in my mouth and nose, and I’m quite positive it’s seeping through my clothes and soaking into my skin.
“Oh God,” she coughs. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m not letting you buy this place.”
We fly out of there, and I see her crack a genuine grin for the first time all day.
“Way to go, Skylar.”
“They need to put a disclaimer on the fact sheet,” she says between holding her breath. She locks up the door and places the key back into the lockbox before bolting down the hallway. “That’s got to be a health hazard.”
The odor follows us down the hallway, and I pull in a lungful of stale air the second we board the elevator. Stale elevator air is a million times more agreeable than the cat piss potpourri wafting from that apartment.
“You must think I’m a horrible agent.” She stares up at me with her big brown eyes, her lashes a mile and a half long and giving her a naturally dreamy appearance.
“You’re zero for two, Skylar,” I say. “But I know you can do better.”
She produces her phone the second we hit the sidewalk outside, thumbing through various listings until she narrows down a few more. “I don’t know if I can show you ten listings today, but I’ve found some completely renovated properties. They’re not in your preferred area, but would you be interesting in seeing them anyway?”
“Where are they?”
“Tribeca and SoHo.”
I rub my lips together as I mull it over. “I was hoping to be closer to the office. My new headquarters will be uptown.”
“I can find you something uptown. I just need more time.” She dumps her empty mocha cup into a nearby trash receptacle and turns away to make a phone call. Maybe I’m expecting too much. Maybe I’m being too hard on her. I know Addison dumped me on her that morning because all the other agents were busy.
She comes back with a proud beam across her lovely face, and my eyes linger on her full lips for a second too long. “There’s a place uptown. Fully renovated. I just spoke with the listing agent. No funny cat smells. No floral wallpaper. Sellers are motivated. It just went on the market yesterday. Show ready. Carnegie Hill is a highly desirable location. I think you might like this one.”
She’s talking quickly, excitedly. Her hands are expressive, matching the fire in her eyes flicker for flicker. She wants to please me, and I like that very much and in the most inappropriate of ways.
“Let’s go.” I slip my hand across her lower back, an old habit of mine, and steer her against the masses as we swim like salmon upstream toward the Carnegie Hill area. I feel her body flinch against my touch and I retreat, stepping in tandem with her as she rattles off a whole host of statistics about the city as if she’d stayed up all night studying them. “You like this, don’t you? Showing apartments? Real estate?”
“I do.” Her head bows. “I was Addison’s assistant for a few years. I did all the behind-the-scenes type of things, but she made it all look so glamorous. Spending all your time rubbing elbows with important people, stepping foot inside the kinds of multi-million dollar penthouses most people only ever see in magazines.” She takes in a breath and turns to face me as we walk. “My mother is an architect. We used to drive around the old part of our town back in Iowa and we’d play this game where she’d make me point out which houses were Queen Anne style and which were Victorian style and which were European Romantic. There’s even a Frank Lloyd Wright back home. I know this stuff like the back of my hand.”
“Sounds…fun,” I tease.
“If you grew up in Iowa, you’d have thought it was fun.” The breeze rustles through her long blonde hair, the wind almost combing it down her back with invisible fingers. Her legs, shapely like a runner’s, takes long strides as she attempts to keep up with me. “Where’d you grow up?”
Skylar’s lavender cardigan flies open as we turn a street corner, and she tugs it down over her breasts. How a girl so petite could be so stacked is beyond me, though she didn’t seem like the type of girl who’d get implants. Most girls with shiny new tits show them off every chance they get. Skylar covers hers up almost compulsively.
“Everywhere,” I say.
She doesn’t ask. I don’t elaborate.
In that moment, I resist the urge to slip my hand into hers. I don’t know why, but I want to. I don’t know this girl, but I know she’s easy to be around, and that says a lot.
I push away my confusing thoughts. I’m not here to pick up women. Between work and traveling for work, I don’t have time to date.
But she’s the sweetest, most complex thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I want to get to know her. I want to know what lies beneath that guarded façade because I’m certain there’s a whole other world hidden away; a world she saves for only a select few lucky enough to get to know the real Skylar.
I refuse to take her at face value because I know there’s more to her than the side I’ve only just met.
“You like living in the city?” I ask as we amble along.
“I love it,” she says it with a breathy smile. “Every day feels like a vacation. Like you know that feeling you get when someplace feels a little magical? Like it doesn’t quite feel like home yet? I like that feeling. I hope it never goes away.”
For the first time all morning, we’re having a genuine conversation, and I fucking love it. I don’t do superficial small talk. It puts me in a bad mood – along with contract negotiations involving the rights to my life’s work.
Amongst other things.
Shit. I’m in a horrible mood today.
But Skylar? She remedies that.
He doesn’t like the condo in Carnegie Hill.
Sigh.
It’s beautiful. Floor to ceiling windows. Old world charm. Original, fully restored light fixtures. Walking distance to his new office. Sparkling kitchens and baths featuring Carrera marble everywhere and imported walnut flooring. A balcony view of Central Park. Move in ready. Priced to sell. It’s a brand new listing, and it’s going to be pending by the end of the day, I just know it.
I glance down at my phone to check the time as we leave one of the most breathtaking apartments in all of Manhattan. The wind catches my cardigan for the millionth time that morning, and I tug the fabric down and secure the pearl button that keeps popping open.
Addison gently pulled me aside years back after I showed a listing to Wilder for her. I hadn’t realized my cleavage was on full display, and Wilder got the wrong impression. It’s hard to cover these things, and nine-tenths of the outfits I wear automatically make me look like a naughty librarian. Couple that with a friendly smile, and I could see how a man might get the wrong impression.
“What don’t you like about it?” I ask as we stand outside. He peers over my shoulder, his brows furrowed and meeting in the middle as he appears deep in thought.
“It’s not me.” He appears frustrated, and I don’t know if it’s directed at me or at the situation.
“What is your style? Trendy? Modern? Classic?” I bet Addison can look at someone and automatically know exactly what kind of place would fit them like a fine piece of couture. I’ll get there someday. “There are a couple more places I can show you, but I’d like to go back to the office first. We can sit down and look at some listings online together.”
His hand slides across the side of his head before hooking the back of his neck as his icy aqua stare holds me prisoner. My stomach rumbles, snapping me out of my trance and making me overly aware of the fact that it’s past noon and we’ve only seen three properties.
“We can go back to your office,” he says, much to my relief. He steps toward the curb and hails a cab, opening the door for me the second it skids across the pavement and comes to a quick stop.
***
“I just moved in last week,” I say as I unlock the door to my humble workspace. A small window lets in just enough light, and the room is the size of a janitorial closet. My desk is empty save for my laptop and a picture of my parents. Stacked metal trays sat empty, waiting to be filled with paperwork I may someday be lucky enough to pass off to an assistant.
It’s a start.
Theo takes a seat as I settle into my desk chair, watching as I lean over to adjust the seat height. I swear I can feel him staring down my shirt, and it sends instant heat to my cheeks. I readjust my cardigan and scoot into my desk, cracking the laptop screen open and pulling up the MLS.
“Why don’t you describe your dream apartment,” I start, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen emblazoned with Van Cleef Agency. I slide them across the table, and our hands graze as we exchange the writing instrument.
Theo presses the pen into the paper, writing down words like open, modern, and luxurious. I wish he’d be more specific. His handwriting is neat, legible, even from across the desk.
I type his budget into the search bar and check boxes next to several Upper East Side neighborhoods. A wide assortment of listings appears, and I slide my computer around so he can see.
“Anything strike your fancy?” My fingers cross beneath the desk. Theo seems to be a hard man to please, and I want this sale more than anything. I want to impress Addison. I want to prove to myself that I can do this job, and I can do it well. And I want to satisfy Theo.
He uses the track pad to scroll down, and I study his face, which perks up every few seconds before falling back into a pseudo-frown. My mind wanders again as I wait. Even when he frowns, he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I dated a guy like Theo once before: Nick Giordano. Dashing good looks. Charismatic charm. More money than God. He pursued me relentlessly, telling me how beautiful I was every chance he got. A year into the relationship, he grew bored with me and took his affections elsewhere, and I realized he never even took the time to get to know me. All he ever cared about was how I looked on his arm. I barely got a taste of what I so foolishly thought was real love, only to have it all washed away as if it never existed to begin with.
Never again.
I snap myself out of it when he draws in a breath and leans back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Skylar. Nothing jumps out at me.”
My heart sinks and my ego withers into nothing. At least five listings on that page were sheer perfection. “Nothing?”
Is he really this picky?
His hand laces into his thick hair, gathering some between his fingers and tugging on the ends. He seems stressed.
“Maybe my mind’s not in the game today.” His words come out as one big sigh.
“This shouldn’t be stressful. I want this to be fun for you,” I say, my lips pulling into a soft smile. I resist the urge to put my hand over the top of his for added reassurance. I don’t want to send the wrong message, yet I feel the need to comfort him for some reason.
His shoulders fall, as if a heavy weight is pressing down on them. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. I think we need to stick a pin in this. I’ll have to live out of my suitcase for a while. I don’t want to dump any cash into the wrong place just because I rushed everything.”
“I understand.”
“I’m flying back home tomorrow,” he says, our eyes meeting. “I’m only going back to close on the sale of my house and then I’ll return in a couple days. We can pick up where we left off then. That sound good? Can you put me on your schedule for Thursday?”
I nod, grabbing my calendar and freezing when I notice the tiny star on Thursday's block. I have a date that night, a blind date actually, with a guy I met on a dating app. The same dating app I referred my boss to years ago when she asked me how to meet people in this day and age. Little did she know, I’d never used it myself. I’d overheard people my age talking about it at a bar the weekend before.
“When do you want to get together on Thursday?” I ask.
“I land Thursday afternoon, so let’s meet up around five. I’m treating you to dinner since you’ll be working late that night,” he offers.
I’ll have to cancel my date. I don’t want to, but I want this sale more than anything. “Can we do Friday instead?”
His face falls. I’m committing career suicide, and I’m not even a week in. I need to get my priorities straight. Addison would kill me if she knew I was placing a blind date ahead of a client.
