7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Natalie
I groan as the sound of my alarm interrupts my sleep, reaching blindly for it on the bedside table. After patting the surface for about a minute without success, I reluctantly open my eyes.
“Ah, shit,” I groan, looking at the phone on the floor. “That’s why I couldn’t find you.”
I do the lazy roll with my body half dangling from the bed while my fingers slide under the phone, lifting it. It takes three attempts before I can manage the trick, and my screen protector now has a new crack, but I’m too happy to be pissed.
I don’t have to get out of bed. It’s a weekend. I just finished a week-long job.
“Yes,” I murmur, tossing the phone to the other side of the bed and pulling the covers over my head. Just as I settle in, my phone begins to ring again .
Choosing to ignore it, I pull the covers tighter over my head. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to sleep, though. It’s not like I was having the best dream ever.
Because I was dreaming about Ethan Cross.
I mean, while I was dreaming, I liked it. The feeling of his hand on my waist and his mouth—
“Nope,” I shake my head, pushing the sheet down with my feet. “No, no, no. I’d rather take a call on my day off than reminisce about having a sexual dream featuring Ethan Cross.”
My phone is no longer ringing, though, and I’m fully awake. So I drag myself to the bathroom, taking off my nightwear before I get there. Standing in front of the mirror, I stare at my reflection, and a sigh slips out.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks since I had sex with Ethan Cross in the back of his car… shamelessly , and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
I’ve tried, really.
After mistakenly calling a client by his name, I decided I needed to get the incident out of my head, so I tried yoga.
Then ice baths.
Then, more ice baths and a solo spa date that got me so relaxed I slipped into the events of that night. The masseuse never noticed, even when a moan slipped out, but I’m too mortified to show my face there ever again.
The sound of my ringtone cuts through the air again, and I hurry out of the bathroom, almost slipping on the wet tile in my haste to answer it.
It’s an unknown number, but I answer it anyway—in my line of work, I never know who’s reaching out to me, and I’d rather take a chance on a stranger than miss a gig .
“Hi!” I hear a chirpy voice on the other end that makes me pause. There’s something about the way it sounds… it’s Anthony!”
Ah.
Aha.
I knew it. But —I shake my head in confusion, bringing my phone to my face as I check the number again— Why would he call me from a stranger’s number?
“Anthony Cross?” I repeat with some hesitation to get clarification.
“Yup,” he says, sounding like his usual animated self, although there’s an extra kick in it today. “Hey. I’m sorry for calling out of the blue, but I thought I’d reached out already, but then I realized that I hadn’t. Could I trouble you for a favor?”
Yes? There’s a lot of this and that in his ramble, but I’m almost certain it’s a gig.
“I need you to come over to an address,” he continues before I can respond, and I’m forced to the bedside table, rummaging through the dresser drawer, when he starts to rattle off an address.
I tell him to repeat it twice before I’m certain I have the right information. “I’ll see you there in an hour. I promise it’s totally safe,” he adds with a laugh before the call ends.
I sink on the bed with a sigh as my breathing becomes choppy from the unexpected use of adrenaline. Then it occurs to me that I never bothered to find out what Anthony wanted me for. I just assumed it was a job.
“What else?” I mutter as I stand up, dragging my naked self to the bathroom. He’s never made a pass at me, even though Danielle was insistent that he looked at me a certain way.
He’s not going to ask me on a date, right? I’m panicking already, and my brain doesn’t make it worse by feeding me scenarios of a surprise date .
“You’re not delusional, Natalie,” I say firmly, staring at my reflection while my fingers grip the sink’s edge. “You’re definitely not his type either.”
Does Anthony Cross have a type, though? Every blog and gossip issue that has featured him and his sexual or romantic escapades has been different women—blondes, brunettes, small, plus-sized. But it’s always been obvious that he felt something for them, as shallow as it was.
Besides , I shrug with grudging acceptance; Anthony isn’t my type.
If I’m being honest, despite my lack of recent dating history, I lean towards men who look like they have secrets to protect.
Men with jagged scars and permanent scowls—
“What the hell am I saying?” I groan as I gain control of my thoughts again, slapping my cheeks to focus. “Work, Natalie. That’s your type. You need to work and make money.”
Right. I nod vigorously.
Shower. Dress. Strange address. In that particular order.
***
The address leads me to a luxury apartment building in Rittenhouse Square. The concierge at the door smiles at me when I approach and waves me in without asking for a means of identification.
“The fifteenth floor, Miss Monroe,” he says. “Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
“Thank you,” I smile and nod politely, clutching my bag as it slips down my shoulder.
“You’re welcome. ”
The building smells like flowers, and it puts me in a good mood as I ride the elevator to the fifteenth floor. As the elevator glides to a stop, a soft chime fills the air. The mirrored doors slide open to reveal a sleek, carpeted hallway that radiates opulence.
The muted lighting casts a warm glow, and the faint scent of lilies mingles with a hint of something luxurious—sandalwood, perhaps.
“Nope,” I’m quick to shake my head as my mind picks up the smell. “It’s just your thoughts, Natalie.”
There’s no Ethan here.
Still, I step out cautiously, my heels sinking slightly into the plush carpet as I glance around. The hallway is immaculately quiet, as though the sound itself is unwelcome here.
Ahead of me, a single door stands at the end of the corridor, larger and more ornate than the others. It’s made of dark wood, with a polished brass handle that gleams under the soft lights.
Reaching the door, I pause to take a steadying breath, glancing down at my reflection in the polished brass plate on the wall beside it. My hands reach down to smoothen my jeans with a dressy blouse thrown over it.
Since I never thought to ask about the nature of the job, I decided to go for something between casual and formal with a pair of low black pumps.
After a quick check of my appearance, I lift my hand to knock. Then I stand back and wait.
It takes a minute, but I hear the muted sound of soft slippers on the other end and the quiet click of the door. In the split second before it opens, I prepare a smile and part my lips with a friendly greeting at the tip of my tongue.
…it dies on my tongue the moment the door swings open .
Ethan.
His all-imposing self stands by the doorway, an arch to his eyebrow and his mouth curled in familiar distaste. My mouth closes and opens again as I try to speak, but I can barely get anything out.
Seeing the one person who you thought you wouldn’t run into—the person you had sex with and can’t stop thinking about—is one way to achieve speechlessness, I guess.
I’m not about to look like a bumbling idiot in front of him. I’ve been there before when I walked into his bedroom and saw him shirtless. I spent days thinking about the blood I saw on his knuckles and his torn shirt, wondering what must’ve happened prior.
So I pinch myself hard enough that I yelp out loud, but it turns out to be for nothing because Anthony appears at that moment, wearing a grin.
He shoves Ethan aside and pulls me into a bear hug. “Hi. I’m so glad you came. And I’m so sorry for the impromptu request. The truth is—” he releases me, although his hands remain on my shoulders, “I’m having some people over, and I need to have food in the apartment. I thought I’d discussed it with you already, and then I found out that I—”
“Would you let her in?” Ethan, with an edge in his voice.
He doesn’t wait for either of us to respond before turning and striding into the apartment.
Anthony purses his lips. “Huh. Someone’s in a bad mood.” Then he shrugs nonchalantly and turns to me again. “That’s none of our concern, though. Come, let me show you what you’ll be working with.”
Adopting his nonchalant attitude, I follow Anthony into the apartment, which easily dwarfs mine in both size and luxury.
It doesn’t escape my notice that Ethan has retreated into one of the many rooms, and I allow my curiosity to wonder which one before promptly shutting it down.
The space exudes elegance, with gleaming hardwood floors, high ceilings, and natural light pouring in from the oversized windows. The entryway stretches into a wide hallway that leads us to a kitchen that could rival any five-star restaurant.
“I asked a chef to get the supplies,” Anthony says with a proud smile, gesturing toward the counters, which are buried under an assortment of food items—produce, spices, fresh meats, and exotic-looking jars.
Every single surface is covered, making it look like the set of a gourmet cooking show.
I’ve never worked with this much food before.
Even when I had to cater for the party—that ended up being a prelude to a one-night mistake—there wasn’t this much food.
“But,” he continues, his tone shifting to something more earnest, “I didn’t want anyone else aside from you to handle it. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time?” He gives me a boyish grin, the kind that’s hard to resist.
For a moment, I glance at the kitchen in disbelief, taking in the sheer amount of work laid out before me. “You’re serious about this?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Dead serious,” Anthony replies with a mock, solemn nod, though the glimmer in his eyes betrays his amusement.
I fold my arms and let out a soft laugh, shaking my head as I turn back to the task at hand. “Alright. Let’s see what I can do.”
He kisses me on the cheek enthusiastically. “You’re the best.”
After he leaves, I find an apron in one of the drawers and get to work. My phone sits on the island—that also doubles as a second dining space carved into its corner—and soft music plays as I move from corner to corner, chopping and slicing.
The hours melt away as I twirl around the kitchen, completely absorbed in the rhythm of cooking. My head bobs along to the music playing, and a light hum escapes my lips as I lose myself in the task.
The smells of garlic, spices, and herbs fill the air, mingling with the faint citrusy tang of the cleaning products I’d used earlier.
I sway toward the fridge, still caught in the rhythm, reaching for the handle without looking. My hand brushes against something warm—startlingly warm—and I gasp, my heart jumping in surprise.
Turning quickly, I see him standing there, leaning casually against the counter. His dark eyes are watching me with a mix of amusement and something else I can’t quite place.
But as quickly as the amusement comes, before I can even register it, it fades into a scowl.
“I’m sorry,” I step back. “I didn’t see you there.”
He nods. “I know.”
Oh.
It feels like I should say something else, but my thoughts are nowhere near a coherent response. Instead, my thoughts stray to something else—like his appearance.
He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants that sit low on his waist with a peek of his well-toned Andonis line. It clings to his calves, showing off what has to be the result of genetics and a consistent gym routine.
If we’re judging by his cousin, Anthony, I’d say the former more than the latter.
Some people just have it all.
My gaze tilts to his loose-fitting grey shirt, which covers his chest but is off at the shoulders—deliberately like someone tore the sleeves out in a fit of rage .
Almost like the scar on his back.
Even though it’s covered, I can still see it. The uneven ends start just below his neck and end at his waistline, almost cutting across his spine.
I don’t realize how intently I’m staring until Ethan suddenly glances over his shoulder, his sharp gaze meeting mine.
His expression is unreadable, a flicker passing through his eyes before his lips curve into a tight line.
“See something interesting?” he asks as he moves away from the fridge, his tone even but laced with an unspoken challenge.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I quickly reach for the fridge as a refuge, feigning interest in its contents. “No,” I say too quickly, grabbing the first thing I see—a bottle of water—and shutting the door.
In my haste to retreat, I trip over my feet and stumble with my hands flailing out. The bottle of water falls to the floor, but I manage to catch myself before face-planting.
“Phew,” I exhale as sweat breaks out across my forehead, crouching to grab the bottle. As I stand, I see Ethan over my shoulder, standing with his arms folded.
Saying nothing.
Wait.
I frown as I spin around, thrusting my hands on my waist. “You were here,” I say. “You watched me stumble and almost fall. Why didn’t you help?”
He could’ve caught me one-handed, and he wouldn’t have broken a sweat. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.
Ethan shrugs, clearly unfazed. “You didn’t fall.”
I stand there, frozen, staring at the empty doorway like it might give me answers. The nerve .
“You—” My teeth clench, cutting off the string of sharp words threatening to tumble out. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire brewing inside me, but my hands are still balled into fists.
And then, without so much as a second glance, he glances at the arrangements I’ve spent hours perfecting, gives me one of those looks , and walks out of the kitchen.
“No, he didn’t!” I mutter under my breath, the frustration too much to contain.
Slamming the water bottle down on the counter, I march toward the doorway, but I stop myself just before stepping through.
What am I even going to say? That I’m angry because he was being an asshole?
I inhale deeply, forcing myself to turn back to the kitchen, but my pulse is racing. I don’t need his help. And I certainly don’t care what he thinks.
Liar .