Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ANDREW
Dear Diary,
My name is Andrew Watson and at the ripe old age of thirty-five, I’m starting a diary for the first time in my life, I guess when Santa delivered it this morning he planned for me to write it all down. Not sure why…. But here goes nothing.
Perhaps this will be a new tradition, write in a leather-bound book once a year, only to never touch it again.
It’s Christmas night, a cup of eggnog is sitting on the desk beside me as I put pen to paper. The house is silent, Home Alone is playing on the television in the background and through the window I can see snowflakes softly float through the air before joining the ice blanket on the ground.
My life is…. Complicated, and messy. Just like my heart, and although I waited for a Christmas Miracle today, she never showed up.
I hold the pen in my hand as I think, how do I even start this…oh wait, I know.
Once upon a time….
I turn the sign on the back of the door.
C L O S E D
“What a day.”
My phone vibrates on the front counter and the name Murial lights up the screen. She’s my booking agent, why is she calling me at this hour?
“Hello.”
“Oh my god. Tell me you’re free tonight,” she blurts in an excited rush. “The biggest opportunity of a lifetime just fell into my lap.”
“Biggest opportunity of a lifetime.” I roll my eyes, always so dramatic.
“You will never guess who has just enquired about a massage tonight.”
“Taylor Swift,” I reply dryly, I tuck my phone up into my shoulder so I can talk while I clean the front counter.
“Better.”
“Better?” I smile as I wipe down the cash register.
“The CEO of Jupiter.”
I frown, my interest piqued. “Jupiter Software?”
“Uh-huh. The regular masseuse fell off a horse and broke her hand today.”
“Okay.” I frown. “So why is this the opportunity of a lifetime?”
“Because they pay triple and get four massages a week, every single week. This one client will earn you more than your entire weekly income.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip as I think, damn it, I was planning on a Netflix-in-bed kind of night. “Okay.”
If I get this gig I could move into a nicer place.
“So you want the job?” she asks.
“Obviously.”
“Great, because I already accepted on your behalf.”
I roll my eyes, I can always count on good old Murial to overstep the boundaries. “Okay, when and where?” I ask.
“Seven p.m. at 217 West Fifty-Seventh. It’s Central Park Tower. Park in the underground parking lot, I’ll send you a parking pass now.”
“Central Park Tower?” My eyebrows flick up in surprise, the starting price of those apartments is at least one hundred million dollars. “Nice….” I scribble down the address and directions.
“The concierge will be expecting you. Tell them you’re there to see Mr. Harrington. I’m telling you, this guy is Daddy Warbucks apparently.”
“Okay.” I sigh, honestly the last thing I feel like doing tonight.
“Don’t. Be. Late.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll call you in the morning to see how it went.”
“Night.” I hang up and walk out into the back bathroom and flick the shower on, I guess I better freshen up.
An hour and a half later the elevator doors open into the foyer and I walk over to reception, he’s serving someone else and I look around as I wait.
This place is beautiful, cream marble wall to wall.
The front counter alone would be worth more than my car.
“Hello, may I help you?” the concierge asks.
“Yes, my name is Andrew Watson and I’m here to see Mr. Harrington.”
“Yes, sir.” He nods before grabbing a keycard. “This way.” He walks briskly to the elevator and I get in beside him with my massage table strap over my shoulder. He stands quietly and stares at the back of the doors as we go up. No smile, no small talk, not a damn thing.
I internally roll my eyes, even the doormen here think they’re all it.
I hate rich people.
The door opens and we arrive at a small foyer, there’s a large circular dark green marble table with a bunch of deep maroon roses in an oversized crystal vase.
He buzzes a doorbell as I wait silently and internally kick myself…. Honestly, I hate this place already.
Why did I come?
The door opens and a man appears. “Hello.” He smiles.
“Mr. Watson is here to see Mr. Harrington.”
“Yes.” He gives me a weak smile as he looks me up and down.
“Thank you. This way, Mr. Watson.” He turns and walks off, the doorman who bought me up here looks over at me and if he had bothered to even acknowledge my existence on the ride up here I would say goodbye to him, but he didn’t, so I won’t.
I follow the man through the doors and am hit in the face with a ceiling-to-floor wall of windows overlooking Central Park, a view so beautiful that it falters my step.
Jeez….
“My name is Digby, Mr. Watson. I’m the head of staff here and if you’ll follow me into the office I have some paperwork for you to fill out.”
“Of course.”
We walk out into a main living area and I see a double staircase up to another level. The furnishings are all super modern and cream, giant chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The sun is just setting and a warm pink hue lights up the sky outside.
I try to act casual, as if I see places like this every day, but this place is so stunning that it’s a true effort to stop my mouth from falling open.
I follow Digby into an office, it’s cream and has light timber furnishings and bookcases, another large floral arrangement of white orchids sits on an oversized glass desk.
He goes through the filing cabinet and I look around, this office feels decidedly feminine.
Maybe it’s his wife’s office or something…
. Come to think of it, maybe its Digby’s office.
“Can you sign here, and here.” He points to two spots.
“What is this?” I ask.
“It’s a nondisclosure agreement,” he replies. “Standard when you walk onto these premises. Everyone signs one who works here.” He winks. “Even me.”
“Oh, okay.” I smile, feeling a little better, and I sign where he points, Digby isn’t so bad after all.
“Just through here and Miss Harrington will be down in a moment.”
“Miss?” I frown. “I thought I was seeing Mr. Harrington.”
“No.” He opens the door and another wall-to-wall window with a breathtaking view comes into sight. “This is the residence of Miss Harrington. We book everything for her under a male name to lower the risk of predatory behavior.”
“Oh.” I nod, predatory behavior…odd. “Okay.”
“Set up in here and she will be down in a moment.”
“Thank you.” He leaves me alone and I set up the massage table and then go and stand at the window and stare out over the now-twinkling lights of New York.
There’s a feeling of tranquility up here, the city way below is silent. Tiny rows of lights as cars sit in traffic. A perfect-picture postcard, almost feels as if it’s only for show.
“Hello,” a husky female voice says from behind me.
I turn and our eyes lock, long dark hair, olive skin, perfect curves wrapped in a cream silk gown. My cock throbs in appreciation at merely the sight of her and I swallow the lump in my throat as I try and get a handle on myself.
Oh no.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
MABEL
We stare at each other as the air crackles between us.
What the….
I snap my eyes away, unable to hold his piercing gaze for a second longer.
He steps forward and holds out his hand to shake mine. “Hello, I’m Andrew Watson. Your massage therapist.”
Oh….
“Hello, my name is Mabel Harrington.” I shake his hand. It’s large and hot and large and….
No. No. No.
He cannot see me undressed.
“I….” I’m flustered by his beauty. “I….” I step back to create some space between us.
“I’m sorry, there has been a change of plans.
I….” His hair is curled and sandy brown, sun-kissed on the ends.
His skin is tanned and he has the biggest blue eyes I have ever seen.
Tall and muscular, he is the epitome of male perfection.
“It’s just that….”
He raises his eyebrow as he waits, it’s been a long time since a man has me shaken on sight alone. “It’s just what?” he asks.
“I don’t need your services tonight, Mr. Watson, my apologies. You will be paid for your time, thank you for coming.” I turn and walk toward the door.
“Wait,” he calls.
I turn back to face him.
“You need a massage and I need the money,” he replies. “It’s only ninety minutes and I’ve driven all the way down here.”
We stare at each other.
“I can assure you that I’m a professional and….” He shrugs as his eyes hold mine. “It’s okay, you’re in safe hands. I promise.”
Can he feel my attraction to him?
“I just….”
“I’ll leave the room while you get onto the table,” he continues, completely ignoring me. “Take everything off except your briefs and lie on your stomach. Cover yourself with the towel, okay?” he says softly. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Without another word he leaves the room and I am left alone.
I begin to pace, what the hell is wrong with me?
He’s young…so young. At least ten years younger than I am. Ridiculously good looking, and his aftershave…. Are you kidding?
I cannot be naked around him, he cannot touch me…. I don’t want to embarrass myself with my inappropriate Mrs. Robinson act.
What do I do?
I pace some more….
Boom.
Boom.
Boom, my heart beats loudly in my ears.
“Can I come in?” he calls.
“Just a minute.”
Fuck.
I throw the robe to the side and dive onto the massage table, I struggle to pull the towel up over myself and I push my face so far into the hole in the table that I nearly lobotomize myself.
“Is everything okay, Miss Harrington?”
My god.
“Come in,” I call.
He walks into the room and as his aftershave dances around me I clench my eyes shut to block him out.
Damn you, Melanie, how dare you fall off that stupid horse and break your hand. I’m going to break your other one next time I see you as punishment for putting me through this fresh hell.
“What do you like?” he asks. “What would you like me to concentrate on tonight?”
I blink in surprise at the first thing that comes to mind.
Stop. It.