5

Not that I’ll ever see him again.

He’s friends with Marco, though—not that I know Marco on a personal level. After focusing my real estate portfolio on nightclubs, I was interested in starting one from scratch rather than taking over an established one. I found a building for sale, but while I was readying my business plan, Marco and his partners swooped in and bought it.

I could have offered more, but Novi advised me to invest and learn from them instead of doing it myself.

I gave them money and in return, am getting knowledge of how to build a club from the bottom up so that next time I can do it on my own.

I’ve got plans for Tingel Island, so it’s been a good experience working with Coulter.

So while I’ll no doubt see Marco, there will be no plans to cross paths with Maximilian Stonee again.

Unless I want to.

Novi’s breathing deepens. He’s quite lovely to sleep with: doesn’t snore or make strange noises, doesn’t crowd me too much, and he smells good. And if I’m honest, it is nice to have a body beside me. But…

The man holding me would be happy with anyone. Yes, Novi cares for me, but it’s the love of a father, of a mentor. He’s a wolf who adopts a bird—happy to see them learn to fly but never really accepts them as one of their own.

I’ve had many men hold me while they sleep, but has there been anyone who really knew me? Who knew my dreams, what I ached for? And I have I known any of their dreams?

Loneliness is as dark as the room and heavier than Novi’s arm across me. It’s not a nice feeling.

I’m… lonely.

Heat pricks my eyes at the realization.

I don’t like feeling this way. Usually, work takes up all of my available bandwidth so I don’t have time to consider what may be missing in my life.

What’s missing is a life.

What are you doing for fun?

Nothing. I don’t do anything for fun. My life has become a series of precision moves and countermoves, with the sole purpose of increasing my business empire.

I have amassed an empire, but at what cost? There’s satisfaction from the deals and beating out men who underestimate me. I like the money, since it means security and safety. Other than that—I don’t have much.

Thankfully, my eyes begin to grow heavy, because I don’t want these thoughts to keep swirling. I’ll stay for another ten minutes and then head down to my room. Novi might like to fall asleep with me, but he gets up at an ungodly hour and is too much of a gentleman to force me to wake with him.

The routine is to make sure he’s asleep and then go home. Or to a hotel room, if Novi is here on business.

He never mentioned what business brought him into town this time.

That is my last thought before I fall asleep.

Wine with dinner and then beer at the bar Marco dragged me to, and then Scotch—when was the last time I drank Scotch?— All the alcohol swirling in my belly checks my usual critique that happens every time I step foot in a hotel.

When I travel, I’m supposed to compare every place to the Moon Resorts—service, décor, comfort, cost—and if our places don’t come out on top, I’m supposed to figure out a way to fix that.

The only problem with that is that my father hates my ideas. In fact, he usually finds a way to blame me if Moon doesn’t measure up. I can’t win, so I’ve stopped trying. I told my father I was staying with Marco and paid for my room with my personal credit card, the one he didn’t have access to.

I hate that my father has me by the short and curlies, financially speaking.

The mirror in the elevator could use a shine, mainly because between the sixteenth and eighteenth floors, I sway a little too far to the left and rest my forehead against it. It leaves a smudge. Rubbing the spot with my sleeve doesn’t help.

I give up, leaning my head against the wall rather than the mirror, like a naughty boy sent to the corner by the teacher.

The chime that signals we’re up to the twentieth floor rouses me and I stumble forward as the doors open.

Then I stop. Because… her.

Even with the alcohol, I recognize her as the redhead from the restaurant.

Thankfully, I haven’t drunk enough to start seeing double, so there’s only one of her. Although I wouldn’t be opposed to cloning.

“Hey.” I sound like I know her rather than just stared at her for the length of a meal. “How you doin’?”

I don’t mean to sound like Joey Tribbiani but it really comes out like that.

She winces. The woman is a goddess in that black dress and I sound like a cheap hack quoting Friends. Not my finest moment.

“Sorry,” I mumble, doing my best not to sway. “You’re Cadence Quiler.”

She waits for me to exit, but I don’t move. The door shuts, leaving me confused and still in the elevator. “Jesus.” I stab the open button with a frustrated finger. Nothing happens. “Hello?” I call. “Can you let me out of here? Hello?”

A moment later, the door slides open again and she’s still standing there. I can’t tell if she’s amused or disgusted.

Maybe a bit of both. Amusted.

“Pardon?” Cadence says, which means… I said that out loud.

“Nothing.” I lurch for the door and lean against it so it won’t close again. “Thanks. You saved me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Goody.”

“You don’t want to save me?”

“I want to get in the elevator and to my room, but someone won’t get out of my way.”

Cadence’s hair is loose, no longer pulled back in a bun but snaking down her shoulder in a red river.

“Red river of hair,” I say.

“What are you talking about?”

“Sorry.” Now I sound like I’m imitating a snake. “My filter isn’t working. You want me to get out?”

“That’s usually what happens when the elevator doors open.”

I bark out a laugh. “You’re funny.”

“I’m tired.”

Now that she mentions it— “You do look tired.” She looks like she’d been rudely awoken, with purple shadows and traces of mascara under her eyes. “Haven’t you been to sleep? It’s late and—”

And then I remember who left with. If she hadn’t gotten any sleep, that means that she and Novi Tate—

“No,” she says quickly.

I recoil in horror. “Did I say that out loud?”

“No, but I could tell by your face what you were thinking. And no. Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

“Nothing is not my business. I mean…” I shake my head, which only makes the spinning worse. “I apologize for saying you look tired. Women don’t like that.”

“No, we don’t.”

“You look beautiful, not tired at all.” Alas, the slurring makes it sound like bootiful, with a long o. “So much not tired that I would love if you stayed awake and came back to my room for breakfast.”

“No, thank you.” Even in my state, Cadence’s voice is as icy as the Atlantic Ocean in January.

My hands go up. “Not like that,” I protest. “I seriously get a craving for pancakes when I drink. And I guess you can tell I’ve been drinking.”

The elevator door bumped into my back like a neglected lover demanding attention.

“I guess,” she says scornfully.

“So, want pancakes? They make them good here with real maple syrup or if you don’t like that, they have this blueberry syrup but it has a bit of bourbon, and I really don’t need any more to drink…” I trail off and try my best to give her a winning smile.

I don’t think it works.

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t like to repeat myself, but in this case, I see I have no choice.” Cadence heaves a sigh, sounding scarily like my father when I’ve pissed him off. I shake my head to rid myself of any comparisons between this goddess of a woman and my asshole of a father. “I don’t want to eat pancakes with you. I would like to enter the elevator and go home.”

She doesn’t sound like an asshole, so I give a gallant sweep of my arm and invite her in. “By all means. Join me.”

She drops her smile. “I’m not getting in that elevator until you get out.”

“Ah.” I step out, keeping my hand on the door to keep it open. “Sorry.”

“Mm-hmm.” The way she steps around me and into the elevator suggests she’s more annoyed rather than afraid, but she looks far away standing at the very back of the car.

I hate that I made her feel uncomfortable, but can’t seem to let go of the door. “I’m sorry. You said you’re going home? You’re not staying here?”

“That’s really none of your business.” Her voice is tired. More exhausted than annoyed. A woman like her shouldn’t be wandering the halls of a hotel in the middle of the night. She should be tucked up beside a man.

Not a man, unless it’s me as a man. Cadence could be tucked up beside me and I would enjoy that. Not other men. Don’t want to picture that. “It’s just that I wanted to invite you for breakfast.” I try for cheerful instead of whining. Or begging. There’s a good chance I might be seen as begging.

Marco will disown me as his friend if he hears about this.

She frowns. “There’s no way you’re making breakfast.”

“I can’t make breakfast.” I draw back, aghast and only half joking. “You think somebody who looks this good can cook?”

There—those lips twitch in what has to be a smile. The start of one, anyway. “I can cook,” she says.

“You think you’re prettier than me?” I protest.

“Boo-tiful, I think you called me.” Another twitch.

“You want to smile. I can tell.”

“No. I really don’t.”

“But you do.”

“No.” Any hint of humour has vanished from her face. “Now, if you don’t mind.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands.

I back away, into the hall. “I’m sorry,” I call again, catching the door before it closes.

“Exactly what are you sorry for?”

“Being a drunken idiot?”

“Admitting is half the battle.” And then, as I let the doors slide together, she smiles.

A radiant, full-faced smile. It’s like the dim lights in the elevator were replaced with 150-watt bulbs.

And then the door closes, and she’s gone.