Chapter Two Lexie
“And when are you coming back, exactly? When you said the hospital let you out of your contract, I thought that meant I’d be getting my best friend back.
” Mia’s attitude is broadcasted through the kitchen, her irritation echoing on speakerphone.
“It’s already been four months, how long are you going to play hard to get?
It’s rude to tease me like this.” I roll my eyes at her dramatics, grinning only because she can’t see me.
“Oh please, it’s not like you’re just sitting at home all day without me,” I shoot back.
“You’re the busiest person I’ve ever met.
I invited you to come visit me. But noooo, you’re too important to take the time off to come to New York.
” I let the sarcasm drip from my voice. Now that the potatoes are sauteed and softened, I add the steak to the skillet.
The recipe calls for two steaks—instead of halving the ingredients, I’ll just have leftovers.
The meat sizzles in the hot pan, spitting grease and butter onto the stovetop and counter.
Damn, I hate having to wipe up grease.
“You know I have surgeries; I can’t just run around playing housekeeper for strangers like you.” She’s on the defensive now, but she has a point. That’s what I get for picking a surgeon as a best friend. Her job is a lot more demanding than mine, but I’m not about to admit that to her.
“Are you trying to say that surgeons are more important than nurses? Wow, tell me how you really feel.” I’m laying it on thick and she knows it. But she has to deny it, she can’t help herself.
“You know that’s not what I’m saying, Lexie,” she insists, but I continue to wind her up.
“It’s fine, whatever,” I tease. “I’m just not important enough to you.
Just abandon me in this big city all by myself.
” Opening the spice cabinet, I need to reach on my tiptoes to grab the seasoning I’m looking for.
Fresh basil would taste a lot better, but that would’ve required thinking far enough ahead for this meal to buy ingredients.
Which I did not.
“Oh, shut up.” Despite her best efforts, I can hear the smile in her voice. I’m about to laugh at her, but my teasing is cut short.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking down to see that I leaned into a puddle of grease. Damn these big boobs.
“What?” Mia asks.
“I leaned on the counter and got grease on my new shirt.”
“That’s what you get for being mean to me.”
I pull off the shirt and take it over to the sink, treating it with a dose of grease-fighting dish soap. I’ve done what I can to save it. Now all I can do is pray that my new top lives to see another wear.
Standing in the middle of the large kitchen without a shirt on feels wrong, especially since I’m not in my apartment.
I walked around my place back in Oregon topless all the time, but the unfamiliarity of being in someone else’s home creeps in and takes giant bites out of my comfort-based confidence.
The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that offers a magnificent view of the New York City skyline from this twenty-second-floor penthouse, while usually impressive, now makes me feel like a goldfish in a bowl.
Each light illuminating the view feels like pairs of eyes staring with an unobstructed view as I stand here in my bra.
I need to put a shirt on.
“I have to get a fresh shirt and finish cooking, so I’m going to hang up on you now,” I announce, walking back over to where my phone sits by the stove, just barely out of the pan’s spitting range. The steaks roar loudly as I flip them, before settling into the pool of melted butter and herbs.
“Fine.” Mia’s voice brightens with excitement. “But FaceTime with me tomorrow so we can watch The Bachelor together. I heard from one of the interns that Brandi slaps someone, and I bet it’s Ashlyn.” Damn, that sounds awesome, I love petty drama.
“Are you serious? Yeah, we’re definitely watching that tomorrow. I’ll call you,” I promise. “Bye, Mia. Love you.”
“Love you too, babe. Talk to you later.”
Music resumes playing over the house Bluetooth speakers when I end the call.
Turning down the burner under the skillet and praying that I’m not about to ruin my dinner, I rush to my room in search of a clean shirt.
The guest room I’m occupying is on the first floor.
I chose the one closest to the kitchen on purpose.
“Come on, where is it?” Muttering in frustration, I dig through the pile of laundry next to my suitcase for my favorite lounge tee. This is what I get for letting this room get so messy—and I’ve only been here two weeks. I can’t find the right shirt and now my steak is going to burn.
Giving up, I pull on a T-shirt from the top of the pile and head back to the kitchen. Walking down the hall, I can hear my steak hissing on the stove over the music playing. Humming along, I turn the corner and my breath catches in my throat.
I freeze.
A man I’ve never seen before stands at the stove, spooning butter over my steak after turning off the burner. His giant frame fills the expansive kitchen, his presence dominating the space. He’s definitely someone who can easily overpower me in a heartbeat.
Shit, what do I do?
I stand frozen, my heart racing as the surprise wears off.
Time seems to slow as my limited options run through my brain on a loop.
I’m tempted to turn around and go lock myself in the bathroom.
But my phone is on the counter next to him, and I’ll have no way of contacting help.
Staying to confront the man isn’t my favorite idea either—dread has a painfully tight knot forming in my stomach at just the thought of it. Either way, I’m screwed.
I can see the moment he senses me. His head turns, and our eyes lock—mine looking like a deer in headlights, I’m sure.
Shit.
Intense hazel eyes move over me, reading and processing, as he runs a hand over his dark, immaculately groomed beard.
The sharp black suit covering his massive frame seems both fitting and confining as he moves around the room—like it’s a custom-tailored uniform he’s itching to be free of.
He regards me for a moment while my brain lags on something to say.
“Who are you?” That’s the genius question I come up with.
Confrontation it is.
“I can ask you the same thing.” His deep voice is calm and collected. He reaches into the cabinet to the right of the stove to grab two plates, completely at ease.
“I don’t know what you want, but you need to leave. Right now.” There’s nothing I can do about his presence, and we both know it.
“Oh, do I?” His voice is edged with a challenge. “And if I don’t?”
“I’ll call the police.” I’m bluffing. I have no way to call anyone; I’m just praying he doesn’t realize that. But the way he glances at my phone next to him tells me that he does.
“That would be a lot more threatening if I didn’t have your phone over here with me.
” He leans his hip against the counter, crossing thick arms over a broad chest and tilting his head at me.
“And considering I own this apartment, I’m pretty interested in what the police would say.
But by all means, call them.” Moving my phone from the other side of the stove, he puts it back down and sends it sliding across the counter.
It stops just inches from me, and I stare at the device blankly as I process what he just told me.
“You’re the owner of this apartment?” His crisp black suit does say money, so does the gold watch on his wrist. He’s a lot younger than I pictured, nowhere near the balding middle-aged man I figured lives here.
Instead, he looks to be in his early thirties.
And his thick head of dark brown hair is far from balding.
How easily he’s been navigating the kitchen is also a clue, but that doesn’t mean he actually owns the place.
“I am. Which leaves the question: Who are you?” His movements are relaxed and controlled as he plates the steak, green beans, and potatoes. It’s like he’s preparing to eat with an old friend instead of standing with a stranger in his home—if he’s telling me the truth.
He pauses for a moment to shrug off his suit jacket and drape it over the back of an island stool.
Rolling the sleeves of his black dress shirt to his elbows reveals muscular forearms completely inked in full tattoo sleeves that end cleanly at his wrists.
Suddenly he doesn’t look like the same man I was just talking to a second ago.
Like Clark Kent’s glasses, by removing the expensive suit coat, he transforms. With his clean-cut professional facade gone, there’s an air of danger about him, the intricate tattoos hinting at a darker story.
Who is this man?
“I’m a travel nurse. One of the guys I worked with set me up to watch this apartment when I quit my contract,” I say, just stalling while I try to remember the name of the guy Tony said owns this place. Something Russo. It started with a C, I think.
Collin? No.
“Do you have a name, travel nurse?” He’s pouring two glasses of red wine, placing them with the plates on the island next to tall glasses of water. Next comes the silverware—a fork and a steak knife at each setting.
This is looking more like a date than a home invasion. Which one of us is doing the invading has yet to be determined. But it’s feeling more and more like it’s me by the second.
“Alexandra West,” I supply. “Lexie.” What was that name? Callum, that’s what it was.
Callum Russo.
“Can I see some sort of ID?”
He looks at me in consideration for a moment, his gaze moving over me as his lips lift in amusement. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
It’s not an absurd request for him to ask the same of me.
“Deal,” I agree.
He reaches into his discarded suit coat pocket, and I walk to where I put my handbag on the far end of the kitchen counter, giving him a wide radius as I pass. Pulling my ID from my wallet, I’m suddenly wishing I had a better license picture.