“I appreciate it.”
He blinks. “You do?”
“Yeah,” I comment, a laugh leaving my throat. I take another step. “Do you know how often I dream about hitting a customer? How often I’ve dreamed about how good it would feel to let loose and tell one what I really think of him or her?” I snort, the sound sharper than I intend, the vodka in the martini making my tongue looser than I ever remember. I squeeze myself tighter. “It’s not an easy business. And we get abused by customers.” I smile. “Sometimes, it’s nice to abuse one back… I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
A moment passes between us—a second of clarity and shared experience and something else.
But the sound of a commotion just inside the bar cuts the moment in half. Patrons move around and shuffle, each turning for a peek through the wide windows at us—their attention burning a hole of shame in my skin.
I suddenly remember where we are. What just happened.
And what we have to do.
I sober quickly.
“We have to get you out of here.” I gaze up at Andrew. “Now. Because any second, that jackass is going to regain most of his faculties. And I don’t want you to be here when he does.”
I look at him—at the man I just fired tonight, and realize that it’s the first time we’re not arguing.
Progress.
I’ll take it. For now.
It might be my only true success of the night.
Andrew tilts his chin, eyebrows arching towards the night sky. “For once in my life, I actually agree with you. Let’s get the hell out of here. Right now.”
He motions me forward, and I march fast, knowing I’m taking a risk. And proving something to myself in the process.
I just chose a friend over the business, just publicly helped a man who assaulted a guest.
I told Sophia I wanted to “make it in Manhattan…”
Well, it looks this is my chance to prove it.
There was no going back after this. The head of construction Mr. Michael Bassett was right.
Keeping my classic Manhattan bar—the only thing I’ve got going on in my life—comes with a cost.
And walking away right now is going to show me how much.
Chapter 6
ANDREW
I know who I need with me when I head into the lion’s den this weekend…
And it isn’t Sophia.
No, the woman I need is standing in front of me.
Nancy and I hail the closest cab we can find, hopping in.
For a Friday night, the city seems particularly alive and we coast down the streets towards lower Manhattan over Broadway, towards 8th Street, arched windows, traffic lights and yellow cabs filling up the space in our windows as we pass.
I lean forward in the frayed leather backseat and give the driver the only address that will get us away from the Hell I created while Nancy sighs.
She glances at me, still smelling of lemon and sunlight, and I can tell she has a million different questions in her overactive mind.
I stop each of them with my hands.
Because in seconds, I wrap my fingers around her, pulling her closer.
I can’t lie: I like the look of lust flashing in her green eyes. But I ignore the fear also there. Even when she asks me the most important questions of the night, her voice small.
“Where did you tell the driver to take us? I don’t know that address.”
“It’s a safe haven.”
“Is it close?”
“It’s close enough,” I respond, my gut turning in circles. “Ever been to Central Park South?”
“Passed by it from time to time. Pretty sure I can’t afford to breathe the air in that neighborhood. Why?”
“Because that’s where we’re going. So, I suggest you hold your breath…”
I don’t tell her much more, choosing to ignore her inquisitive stare. The time for truth will come soon enough.
When I take her to my apartment—the real one.
The final resting place of Lincoln Andrew Fletcher—the liar.
—
NANCY
An hour later, and I’m sure I’m still dreaming.
Because none of this can be happening.
None of this can actually be real…
Can it?
I expect Ashton Kutcher to step out any minute and tell me I’ve been Punk’d.
But when Andrew walks across his hardwood floors and slips an NDA in front of my face I realize that it’s all real.
Not some prank. Not some sort of gotcha.
A penthouse.
An honest to God Central Park penthouse that’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
A grand gallery entrance leads to an even grander salon room. A side hallway spills into an open-concept kitchen, all marble and chrome—clean white and platinum-colored lines that make me feel as if I’m floating on a cloud, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that I haven’t stopped walking, haven’t stopped wandering around the rooms…as if the illusion will disappear before my very eyes.
The hallways are humongous, leading to king-sized bedrooms, and all the while I am followed—stalked, really, by the city outside of the condo’s windows which trails everywhere I go, the skyscrapers outside the floor-to-ceiling glass staying with me like a lover who won’t let go.
I’m amazed.
And terrified.
Especially when I turn around outside of a bedroom overlooking the Park.
The purple hue of the nighttime sky casts a long shadow, but not one as long as the man standing right behind me.
Watching me.
Waiting.
I hold a hand to my heart, surprised it’s not flying out of my chest.
“Are you— Are you telling me you own this place?” I ask into the air.
Andrew dawdles in the doorway, barely looking at my face.
“Yes,” he answers after a few final seconds.
“But it looks like—”
“Yes.”
“And it must cost—”
“It did.”
I drop my hand, my eyes roaming over his tall form towering just a few feet away.
I can’t help but ask the question. It falls out of my mouth like a weight, too tired from being on the tip of my tongue.
“Who are you?”
He straightens at that, looking every bit of exposed the day everything changed between us.
I turn to him, not knowing the man I’ve been working with the
