Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
"Y ou can't be serious." I stare at my partner across his desk, certain I've misheard him. "Apex Development?"
Richard Kellerman, the seventy-something founder of Elite Realty, nods, his expression apologetic but firm. He’s technically the owner, holding five percent more stake in the business, but everyone knows I’ve been running the company for the last few years. He’s more, a signing authority than anything. In fact, we’ve been working out a deal for me to purchase his share next year, when he finally retires. "It's a significant opportunity, Gina. Jeremy Ford is looking to develop an entire mixed-use complex on the Franklin Street lot. We're talking residential, commercial, retail. It’s a deal worth hundreds of millions."
My stomach drops. "And he specifically requested me as the agent?"
"Insisted on it, actually. Said he wouldn't work with anyone else."
Of course he did. Because Jeremy Ford lives to complicate my life.
I force a smile. "Maybe Dianne would be better suited. She has more experience with commercial developments. You know I specialize in luxury homes."
Richard shakes his head. "Mr. Ford was very clear. It's you or no one."
Damn him.
"I understand," I say, because what else can I say? I can't turn down the biggest deal of the year just because the client once broke my heart and now seems determined to... what? Seduce me? Torture me? Both?
"Excellent." Richard slides a folder across the desk. "He's expecting you at his office tomorrow at 2 p.m. to discuss the details."
His office. His territory.
"I'll be there," I promise, taking the folder.
* * *
Apex Development occupies the top three floors of a gleaming downtown high-rise. I step off the elevator into a reception area that screams money with glass and brushed steel and abstract art that probably costs more than my car.
"Ms. Long," the receptionist greets me with a smile that suggests she knows exactly who I am. "Mr. Ford is expecting you. Right this way."
She leads me down a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. My heels sink into plush carpet as we approach a set of double doors at the end of the hall.
"He's just finishing up a call," she says, opening one of the doors. "He asked if you wouldn't mind waiting in his office."
Before I can object, she's ushering me into a massive corner office and closing the door behind me.
The space is intimidating in its simplicity. Minimalist furniture, a wall of windows with a view that would make most CEOs weep with envy, and a desk large enough to land a small aircraft. The only personal touch is a single framed photo I can't quite make out from where I'm standing.
I resist the urge to snoop, settling instead on one of the sleek leather chairs facing the desk. I cross my legs, straighten my blazer, and prepare to be the consummate professional. Regardless of whatever game Jeremy thinks he's playing, I won’t be a willing participant.
The door opens five minutes later, and Jeremy strides in like he owns the world. Which, from the looks of this office, he might. Holy hell. I’d been tempted to look him up over the years, snoop on social media. But, I never did. I didn’t let myself. I forced myself to move on. Not think about him. Not go down that path. Maybe I should have. I wouldn’t have been as shocked as I am now. I figured he’d be successful someday. But this? Way beyond what I could even imagine.
"Gina," he says, his face lighting up with what appears to be genuine pleasure. "Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Ford," I reply, keeping my tone crisp and business-like. "I understand you're interested in developing the Franklin Street property."
"Straight to business." He chuckles, rounding the desk to stand in front of me rather than taking his seat. He leans back against the desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "That's one of the things I've always admired about you. Determination, stubbornness and intelligence, all in one."
I lift my chin. "I'm here to discuss the property, not take a trip down memory lane."
"Can't we do both?"
"I'd prefer to keep this professional."
"Hmmm." He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Alright, Gina. We'll play it your way... for now."
He moves to his chair, and I feel like I can breathe again. For the next hour, we're actually productive. Jeremy outlines his vision for the Franklin Street development. He has a plan to turn it into a mix of luxury condos, boutique retail, and office space. It's ambitious, innovative, and exactly the kind of project that could put both our names on the map in an even bigger way.
I take notes, ask intelligent questions, and ignore the way his eyes linger on me when he thinks I'm not looking.
"Your proposal is solid," I admit as we wrap up. "I'd like to revisit some of the zoning issues with the city planning commission, but overall, I think we have a framework to move forward."
"Excellent." Jeremy closes the folder in front of him. "Let's discuss it over dinner."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"Dinner. You, me, food. A civilized way to continue our discussion."
"That's not necessary. We can schedule another meeting next week with my team?—"
"I don't want your team, Gina. I want you." His eyes hold mine. "Just dinner. To discuss the project."
Liar, my brain whispers. This isn't about business.
But turning him down would be unprofessional, wouldn't it? This is a huge client. A huge opportunity. I can't let personal history get in the way of business.
At least, that's the excuse I make myself.
"Fine," I say. "Dinner. But strictly professional."
His smile is slow and knowing. "Of course. I've made reservations at Lumière for seven. I'll send a car for you."
Lumière.
Only the most exclusive restaurant in the city, with a three-month waiting list and a chef who's rumored to have turned away celebrities because they didn't meet his standards.
"I can drive myself," I say, standing.
"Always so independent." Jeremy stands too, moving around the desk again. "Some things never change. You know, it’s okay to not be independent all the time…" He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair back from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. It's barely a touch, yet it burns like a brand.
"Until tonight, kitten," he murmurs.
I should object to the pet name. I should step back. I should maintain professional boundaries.
Instead, I find myself nodding, my voice embarrassingly breathless when I say, "Until tonight."
As I walk out of his office, I can feel his eyes on me, and I know—with absolute certainty—that I'm in dangerous territory. Because despite everything, despite years of anger and hurt, despite my best intentions…
I'm looking forward to tonight.
And, to my absolute horror, I like it when he calls me kitten.