1. Graham
GRAHAM
S ometimes, when I’m on my way back from a business meeting, I stop across the street from the luxury apartments I own and take it all in.
It’s a modern building. Clean. A wrought-iron fence surrounds a narrow lawn out front with a bricked-in path leading to the doors adding old city charm.
All of it is tended by a team of landscapers who maintain the property daily.
I’m not the person who built it from the ground up, but I bought it and made it mine.
On afternoons like this one, the building represents the epitome of my success.
It would have been a dream come true for my parents to see how far I’ve come.
They didn’t grow up with money and when I first saw this place it reminded me of a make-believe house my mother used to say we would have one day.
My father worked too hard for too little and died too young to enjoy it.
My mom couldn’t bear to live without him.
Once I was alone in the world, I swore I wouldn’t have that kind of life.
I wouldn’t settle for just getting by.
The apartments should be proof that I’ve more than reached those goals.
Everything about them is meant to remind people that they’re home, and that home is somewhere important.
That’s why the front facade is pristine and white.
That’s why the windows shine in the sun.
That’s why plants rise above the rooftop.
It means everything to me.
Or at least it should.
But sometimes, when I’m coming back from a business meeting, I look at the building and think I have a hell of a long way to go before I’ll feel like I’ve made it.
Today’s one of those days.
A lunch meeting about a property I’m hoping to acquire ran long.
I don’t have a good feeling about how things are going, which only makes me more determined to see it through.
It’s twice as large as the luxury apartment building that’s been my personal pet project for the last five years, and it will mean leveling up.
Though some part of me wonders what’s next after that. Some part of me is already looking ahead to even bigger things. There’s never enough. There’s never a stopping point.
Right now, I’m separated from the building—technically, my home—by two lanes of traffic.
The cars move past in a steady stream. For a moment, I could be anyone at all.
A stranger in New York City. I could be the man I was ten years ago, staring at buildings like this and swearing I’d get there someday. I’d own a penthouse here.
Now I own more than one building, but something’s still missing.
There’s an emptiness no amount of money can fill, and it’s more and more apparent every passing day.
With my gaze moving to the yellow light, I wait for the traffic to stop before I cross. The sidewalk in front of my building is busy. A couple passes by me, focused on each other, and I look away.
My mind wanders back to the woman in the elevator.
I haven’t stepped into an elevator in six months without thinking of her.
The woman. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A look in her eyes that I haven’t forgotten. A red dress that clung to every curve on her body like it was made just for her. For all I know, it was.
She was standing in the elevator with another man, which should have been enough to make me forget her instantly. Immediately. I don’t fuck with women who are already involved with someone else, certainly none who have a ring on their finger.
Lucky for me, remembering a person isn’t the same as getting involved with them.
It would be convenient if I could stop thinking about her, though.
If I could stop thinking of the way her eyes met mine in the reflection of the gleaming door.
I felt something just from her dark eyes on mine.
Sensed something in the air. Her perfume had been all around her, and it made me want to do something crazy.
Something like…lean in and kiss the side of her neck even while she had her hand on another man’s arm.
He was nothing compared to her. Even the way her breath hitched was fascinating.
I’ve thought about the way her breasts rose and fell underneath her dress every damn day for six months. Like whatever had come over me was felt by her as well.
Attempting to rid her of my mind and ignoring the fact that I have to ride that damn elevator again, that it may have hints of her perfume if she’s ridden it today, I stride into my building.
I head into the lobby, scanning to make sure everything’s as it should be. Custom tiled flooring is polished and shining. Custom sconces on the walls have every bulb burning. The doormen behind the desk are properly uniformed and both of them nod to me as I go by.
It’s the weekend, but I’m headed back to my office, not to the penthouse. I don’t want to stand in the elevator and think about her. Beyond that, my personal space is as luxurious as the rest of the building. Obviously—I wouldn’t settle when it came to that, either.
Sometimes, despite all the high-end furnishings and the professional kitchen and the miles of extra space, it still feels empty.
I could have my pick of dates and outings, but after a meeting like that one, I’m not in the mood.
My office space on the fifth floor is lit from the outside. I’m not planning to turn on any lights. I’m barely past my secretary’s desk when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The number on the screen is an unfamiliar one. It could be one of the people from the meeting, wanting to continue the conversation, and my pulse pumps harder at the thought. I could tackle some of this bullshit today. Find my footing as far as the deal goes.
I accept the call. “Graham Maxwell.”
“Hi,” a woman says. She wasn’t at the meeting. Her voice heats something low in my torso. “I mean—hello, Mr. Maxwell. My name is Madelyn Cunnigham. I live on the eighth floor of your West Grove apartments.”
I stare out my office windows, hardly seeing the cityscape outside. “I think you’re looking for the building manager, Ms. Cunnigham.”
“No. No. I was looking for you.”
“Were you?” I entertain the conversation for no other reason than because that woman lived on the eighth floor. I allow myself to imagine it’s her, although I’m careful with my thoughts. I’m more giving than I should be.
“Yes. I was hoping to have a conversation.” My gaze drops as her tone turns with slight desperation. “The building manager sent me your way as…I’m having a difficulty I am hoping you could help me with. If you had a few minutes. I wouldn’t take up much of your time, I promise.”
“Something wrong with your apartment? A broken appliance? Because I can direct you to the weekend maintenance team.”
“All the appliances are fine, but there’s a slight emergency.”
I move closer to my desk in case this woman with the beautiful voice has panicked and called me instead of the fire department.
“Fire? Flood?”
“Neither of those,” she says quickly. “Nothing’s on fire.
I just wanted a conversation. I need to have a conversation with you.
” I like the way need to have a conversation with you sounds.
“I could meet you in your office or…or anywhere, really. I’m right upstairs. I can be ready on a moment’s notice.”
“How about this? I’ll come to you.” I have no idea what’s happening here, but I intend to find out. “Which unit are you in?”
“Unit 8A.”
“All right.” I pull the chair out from behind my desk. “Are you sure you don’t need the fire department?” I attempt to add a touch of humor to ease her concerns.
“I’m completely sure,” she promises.
“Give me five minutes.”
“Okay. Thank you so…thank you. I’ll be here.”
The call disconnects, and I tap my password into my computer. I’m not going up to the eighth floor without some basic information in my back pocket.
I have the lease agreement in a few clicks.
Not much here. There’s Madelyn’s name listed underneath a guy named Kevin.
My stomach sinks, but I ignore that. I don’t have any reason to be disappointed.
I liked the sound of her voice. That’s all.
The odds that she’s the woman in the red dress are low I tell myself.
There are thirty-some apartments on that level.
Now I have no choice but to think about the woman in the elevator. She’s a welcome distraction from thinking about this woman on the phone.
I go out and push the call button.
There’re plenty of other things to occupy my mind. I own properties all over New York City. None compare to this building, which is my pride and joy, but they all add to the considerable balances in my bank accounts.
I’m richer by the second. Money piles up even as I step into the elevator and hit the button for the eighth floor.
The doors close and I can almost see her there in that dress, with those hooded eyes. If she stood just behind me, most of her body would be hidden by mine. If I turned around to touch her…
I’m not thinking about this. I’m not thinking about some mystery woman, who lives in this building that I own, with whoever the hell was in the elevator with her that night.
The elevator stops at the eighth floor and the doors open. One of the doormen is waiting in the hall and he steps back with a deferential nod. “Mr. Maxwell.”
“Tom.”
He waits for me to exit, then takes my place in the elevator.
I’m alone in the hall. Compared to how loud the city is, even a space like this—a hallway meant to take people from place to place and not much more—feels luxurious.
I made sure it was that way. I insisted on plush carpeting, crown molding, and neutral paint colors with a hint of warmth.
This place isn’t institutional. This is a home for people who need an escape. An oasis.
The only person it’s not an escape for is me.
I own the building. I headquarter my business here.
I live in the penthouse. There’s not a square inch of this building that’s meant for anything but making money, and that’s what I intend to do.
Double it. Triple it. Become so unfathomably rich that I can forget about my past entirely and never have worries or burdens like the ones I grew up with, the ones that put my father into an early grave.
And this…this isn’t an errand that will make me any money.
I don’t pay house calls. I have people for that.
Today, I’m making an exception.
That’s her door. 8A.
I raise my hand and knock, not expecting to see her there. Staring wide-eyed at me in a simple yet elegant red dress like we’re back in that elevator.
Fuck me.