Chapter 5
Five
Marie
It’s been a week since the unfortunate run-in with Jace and the Lyft.
Since I created the unfortunate run-in, that is.
But it’s been a long week—one filled with my job as the executive vice president of Titan Capital and pretty much nothing else. Because Titan Capital is under attack.
By my boss’s pernicious ex-wife.
Angela Rosseau is a piece of work, a pain in the ass, and a complete and total bitch, all wrapped up in one shiny package.
And she’s been targeting Jean-Michel’s, said boss’s, businesses.
First, it was dropping multiple lawsuits onto his lap. Then it was showing up at his house—and his daughter, Chrissy’s, house—spreading her witchliness around in the form of planting cameras and microphones for some idiotic reason. Now it’s…deeper. Preying on our employees, being investigated by the FBI for having ties to an organized crime ring that is accused of kidnapping and human trafficking, and less scarily, trying to undercut our business connections.
Which means more work for Jean-Michel.
Which means more work for me.
Something I normally love.
Work is my love language—it’s the part of my life that’s given me the most peace and satisfaction and strength.
Jean-Michel is a tough boss, outwardly grouchy and hard to please.
But he’s fair and safe and…a giant teddy bear under all that bluster.
My fairy godfather—a nickname I didn’t dare to give him…but also a nickname I’ve found myself using, mainly because Chrissy and his unofficially adopted daughter, Rory, tease him with it on the regular.
And also because…he is that for me.
It’s a tale as old as time.
Bad parents. Bad boyfriend.
A grumpy, taciturn boss with a heart of gold who rides in to save the day.
Now, I’m out of company housing, out of my asshole of a boyfriend’s crosshairs, and I’m living on my own.
Down the hall from Jace Henderson.
Who’s as talkative as Jean-Michel isn’t and who seems to enjoy pushing my buttons, if our short interaction is indicative of his personality.
And my gut tells me it is.
Tells me that Jace Henderson is trouble with that sexy, muscled body, that beautiful face, that smirk I wanted to smack—or maybe kiss—off his face, all wrapped up in a gorgeous package that seems destined to tempt.
Not me.
Okay, fine. Me.
Certainly me, if the way he’s been haunting my dreams all week is any indication.
Get naked for me, cookie.
Spread those legs for me, gorgeous.
Take it all, beautiful.
Heat flutters through my middle, dips down between my thighs, and I bite back a groan as I ride the elevator up from the parking garage. The only good thing about sharing the floor with Jace is that the CEO of Genen-core seems to travel a lot for work.
I haven’t caught a glimpse of that sexy body, that annoying smirk, those gorgeous eyes…
Not since he murmured, “Night, cookie,” and meandered down the hall.
Something else I’ve heard in my dreams.
I shiver as the elevator doors open with a ding and step out into the hall, and I’m so lost in that tempting package of rough and dangerous, silky soft and full of mischief that I don’t really process what I’m seeing.
Not until the toes of my expensive—and uncomfortable—spike heels (a choice of footwear I’ve deemed necessary to hold my own with all the men I deal with on a daily basis) land in a puddle.
Splash!
It’s the splash that does it.
Because the hallway floor is carpet.
And that’s not supposed to make a splashing sound.
Slowly, and with dawning horror, I glance down.
Water.
A fuck-ton of water, at least an inch, is sitting on top of the carpet, pouring out the thin opening beneath the door, creating that puddle I splashed into.
“Oh, my God,” I say, finally processing the shitshow that is happening beneath my feet.
I jab the buttons on the keypad, hearing the whir as the lock disengages, and then I’m yanking at the handle, shoving my way inside.
“Oh, my God!” I say again.
It’s worse than I thought.
My apartment, the one I’ve worked hard to move into over the last few weeks—complete with careful placement of furniture and throw rugs and a shoe rack that’s floating off my brand-new hardwood floor—is flooded.
Completely flooded.
I blink as my shoe rack drifts toward the front door, but I don’t watch it drift out into the hallway.
Because I’m in crisis mode, trying to figure out where the leak is coming from.
The kitchen seems the most obvious culprit.
But the sink’s not on and there isn’t water flowing out from beneath it.
The dishwasher isn’t overflowing. Hell, it isn’t even hooked up—something I discovered two days ago when I tried to run a load of dishes and ended up having to wash and dry them by hand. The fridge doesn’t have an ice maker, so no leak there.
I hurry down the hall to the bathroom.
The tub’s not overflowing, and the shower’s not on.
But the sink…
Yup, I can hear the rushing sound of water from behind the vanity doors.
Steeling myself, I pull one side open and?—
“Shit!” I hiss as water flows anew, frosty cold and furious, dumping over the toes of my heels, probably ruining them, but I have bigger problems to solve.
Because I don’t know how to shut it off.
There seems to be a waterfall pouring from the back of the cabinet and?—
“What the hell is going on, cookie?”
I gasp, not having heard Jace come up behind me.
“I-I—” My mouth opens and closes, and all I can do is point at the vanity, at the flood of water and say blithely, “It’s leaking.”
His gaze was on the water pouring out, but my words have them flicking to mine for a brief moment, and I don’t miss the incredulity—and blip of humor—in his hazel eyes. But I lose that connection just as quickly because he looks away, tugging off his suit jacket and hooking it on the towel holder.
Then he’s?—
“I—”
Too late.
He’s dropping down to the tile, laying on his back as he shimmies beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting into the opening.
There’s a moment of stillness, the water still pouring, and then I’m watching the material of his button down strain over his torso as he does something I can’t see underneath the vanity.
Something that works, though.
Because the water shuts off.
And then I’m watching a sexy—and wet, his clothes absolutely plastered to his body—Jace Henderson shimmy his way back out from beneath my sink.
And, unfortunately for me, he’s wearing that smirk as he says,
“Now what, cookie?”