Chapter 2
TWO
Efa
New York, New York. A city so great they named it twice—though it seems a little unnecessary to me. I mean, we get it . It’s New York. No need to repeat yourself.
Anyway, here I am in New York City. It’s almost like I’m standing in a cartoon. Or on a film set. I’ve seen it on TV and in films so many times that I convinced myself the version of the city I knew couldn’t be real. But the cabs really are that yellow and steam really does balloon up from manhole covers. Everything’s bigger than it is back in London. Louder. The skyscrapers are so tall they block out the sun, and everyone shouts, including the guy who served up my coffee this morning. He either had anger management problems or was particularly frustrated to be working the weekend.
I lean back on the stone wall behind me and gaze up at the building in front of me, on the other side of Columbus Circle. It houses the headquarters—and only office—of Fort Inc., the most successful technology company in corporate history. It’s not listed on the stock exchange, and the owner—Ben Fort—doesn’t court publicity. In fact, he shuns it. There are no pictures of him on the internet. I can’t even fathom being powerful enough to be able to scrub the internet clean of me. He doesn’t have a LinkedIn page, and bizarrely for a tech company, Fort Inc. doesn’t have a website. No one knows how you get a job there or who they employ.
But I like a challenge.
Fort Inc. fascinates me. Over the last few years, they’ve produced some of the most revolutionary products the industry has ever seen. AI basically wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for Fort. Which is why I want to work for them. With my shiny new degree in computer science, I’m still figuring out what I want to do in the technology space. I know I want to make an impact, I’m just not quite sure how yet. To figure it out, I want to work with the best of the best.
And that’s Fort Inc.
I spend the next twenty minutes trying to cross Columbus Circle and finally reach the entrance to the Deutsche Bank Center. I don’t have a plan. Today is all about seeing a little of New York before I start work tomorrow morning, but I couldn’t not come here. I could just turn up at Fort Inc. reception and say I want a job. What have I got to lose? Problem is, I don’t know what floor they’re on. Maybe they don’t even have a reception.
I make my way through the throng of tourists and get to the office lobby. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find Fort Inc. listed on a building directory. I’ll casually breeze past and bump into the head of HR.
Rumors say Fort hand-selects people from the best colleges and others making their mark in the industry. I went to university on the other side of the ocean and I only just turned twenty-one, so there’s not much chance of me getting noticed by them, or anyone. But in my experience, tenacity pays off. By the end of the summer, I’m determined to be working for Fort Inc.
In the meantime, I get to enjoy a summer in New York—although I hear it can be humid—while working in one of the best hotels in the city, The Avenue.
I get into the lobby and scan the walls for a directory, but it’s all backlit marble and looks more like a spa than a reception space.
“Can I help you?” asks a small woman from behind one of the two mammoth desks that run either side of the lobby.
I stride toward her. “Actually, I was wondering what floor Fort Inc. is on?”
Her expression is blank and she turns to her computer screen. “I’m sorry, we have no record of that company here.”
I pause before I respond. I can’t tell if she knows she’s bullshitting me or not. Like, has she never heard of Fort Inc.? Do they rent this place incognito? Or is she used to being asked and making an excuse to get rid of people? Either way, there’s no point in pushing it. I smile. “Thanks.” I turn and head out the door.
I didn’t expect it to be easy, did I?
It’s getting late and the only other thing I had planned was to check out the hotel where I’ll be working for the next few months. Lucky for me, one of my sister’s inherited brothers-in-law has an apartment in New York City, where I’ll be staying. It also happens to be a block from the hotel, situated on Fifth Avenue overlooking the park. Lucky me.
I cut through Central Park to reach the hotel. It probably takes twenty minutes, but all the new sights and sounds eat away at the time. In what feels like seconds, the doorman of The Avenue is welcoming me inside the elegant lobby.
My joining instructions say the staff entrance is East 60 th Street, and I make a mental note to head back to my borrowed apartment that way, just so I can check it out.
The lobby is huge, much bigger than I’d expected looking from the outside. It’s all dark wood and red thick-pile carpet. A dramatic arrangement of exotic purple flowers fills a circular mahogany table, and three receptionists in black suits stand behind the dark, built-in desks to the right.
I don’t want to ask any of the staff where the bar is just in case they recognize me tomorrow. It might look like I’m spying on them. Instead, I follow two middle-aged women with very expensive handbags. Luckily, we’re all headed for cocktails.
The bar continues the dark theme, accented with gold and bronze. There are plenty of clandestine corners for elicit affairs and a semicircular bar that looks like it’s floating in the middle of the room. It’s moody and sexy and I’m here for it. I’ll probably be here cleaning it tomorrow, but for now, I’m a customer.
I slide onto one of the barstools and a barman immediately hands me a cocktail menu. Before I can wonder how the hell I’m going to read it in such a dimly lit space, he produces a torch and shines it so I can choose what I want to drink. Is it me, or is it a little awkward having him just stand there while I decide? “Can I hold the torch?” I ask.
There’s a subtle rumbling sound that makes the bar vibrate, and I wonder if we’re situated over a tube… er, metro… no, subway station . If I didn’t know we were in New York and not California, I’d think we were experiencing a small earthquake.
A tall man in a navy suit slides onto the barstool next to me on the right and the rumbling stops.
Was it him? Was he making the sound?
“Of course,” the barman says, handing me the torch and distracting me from my thoughts.
The cocktails look, well, delicious. I’d quite happily take any of them. “What do you recommend?” I ask the barman, just as he sets down a drink in front of the man who seemed to make the bar quake.
How did he get served so quickly? He must be a regular. I’ve never done any bartending before. I hope Gretel doesn’t expect me to come with any kind of useful skill set. Gretel is the hotel manager and friend of my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s brother. Does that make him my brother-in-law? Like, do I inherit six brothers-in-law or do I only get the brother who’s marrying my sister? I make a mental note to Google it when I get back to my apartment. Tapping my phone in this bar right now would light the place up like a Christmas tree and I’m trying to go unnoticed.
“Do you prefer vodka-based cocktails or gin?” he asks.
“I like vodka. I like gin.” Sounds like the beginning of a subversive children’s nursery rhyme that I’ll teach my niece, Guinevere, as soon as she can talk.
“I suggest Vagabond Shoes,” he says.
I scan the ingredients and don’t find anything I don’t like. Although, unless they were serving a cocktail with broccoli in it, it’s unlikely I’d find anything that would put me off. “Sounds good.”
The barman waits a beat for me to hand him back the torch before he sets about pulling bottles from backlit shelves and pouring their contents into a cocktail shaker.
Out of the corner of my eye, the man to my right leans back in his chair. I turn slightly and meet his gaze. My heart turns inside out in my chest as his gaze burns into me and the vibrations that I felt earlier start again. This time, I’m very clear on the fact it’s not a subway train or an earthquake. It’s definitely him making that sound. It’s like he’s… growling.
At me.
And I can feel it tugging between my legs.
Even though he’s sitting down, I can tell he’s tall. And big. Not beefy big. He doesn’t look like an American footballer. He’s just… gorgeous. And American-looking, if that’s a thing. It’s weird because even if I wasn’t sitting in a five-star hotel, and he wasn’t wearing a custom suit and an expensive watch, I would know he was rich from his haircut. His almost-black hair is on the long side of short, swept up and back like someone blow-dried it for him. And if they didn’t? Jesus, I’d take that kind of volume on a daily basis.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring.
“Eddie,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “What’s your full name?”
“Everyone calls me Eddie.”
He glances away and shifts in his seat so he’s leaning on the bar, like he’s done with our conversation.
“What’s your name?” I ask him. He may be finished with me, but I’m far from finished with him.
He shakes his head again. “I asked first.”
I laugh but he doesn’t respond. He’s serious.
The barman slides my drink in front of me and I take a sip. The taste doesn’t even register. All I can think about is the guy next to me.
I don’t ever tell anyone my real name. I’ve even thought about changing it. I’ve never liked it. I could make something up, but why should I? If I tell this guy my name’s Eddie, my name’s Eddie.
I take another sip of my drink, and I can’t help but stare at his profile. His jawline is covered with a couple of days’ growth and it looks good on him, but there’s something in the lines at the side of his eyes and the edge of his lips that tells me he’s had a bad day. Maybe a bad year.
“You don’t like the name Eddie?” I ask.
He turns so our gazes lock again and then moves closer, so he’s talking directly in my ear. “You like what you see. I like what I see. But I’m not going to fuck you until I know your real name.”
A low throb beats between my thighs and I exhale shakily. Did he really just say that to me? I mean, I know New Yorkers have a reputation for being direct, but a comment like that sounds extreme and… completely sexy.
And how does he know I’m interested? Hmm. It’s probably not that difficult to surmise, given my staring.
He turns back to the bar, leaving me with a choice. I can enjoy the rest of my cocktail and ignore the guy next to me, or I can tell him my name—or a made-up name that I prefer—and get laid.
“Efa,” I say, without thinking. I’ve not said it out loud for a long time. Do I dislike it because my parents chose it, and my generalized resentment for them has bled through to my name? Or maybe because it sounds so feminine, so weak? Either way, it’s my real name.
That growl again.
“I’m Bennett,” he says.
“Good to know,” I say.
Nothing like a bit of American confidence. I had an American boyfriend for about three and a half weeks when I was seventeen. It’s like the confidence is hard-wired—part of their genetics. It was irritating on Brad. On Bennett though? It makes me wonder how his hand will feel sliding over my stomach. How his tongue will feel on my neck. Whether the vibrations from his growl could actually make me come.
“I’m a lesbian,” I say and turn back to my drink.
“No you’re not. You’re interested in me. I’m interested in you. Let’s not waste time pretending otherwise.”
I turn back to him with narrowed eyes. “Okay,” I say. “I’m potentially interested in you. You seem…” I lean back a little so I can take him all in. “Interesting.” I pause and appreciate the fact that he doesn’t respond with, “In all the right places.” I guess I’m used to boys in their twenties and this man here is definitely not in his twenties. “Haven’t made up my mind about whether I want to have sex with you yet.”
He gives a smirk bordering on arrogant or condescending or something, but just misses. “Okay, well, when you figure it out, let me know.” He takes a sip of his drink and I do the same, mirroring him. I don’t know if this cocktail is the strongest thing I’ve ever tasted, but I swear, the body on this guy is making me weak. Everything about him is attractive. The broad shoulders that make me feel tiny. The large hands that hold his glass like it’s a child’s tea set. The sharp jawline that might be too much if it wasn’t for those full, soft lips. No doubt he has a fantastic arse from all that time he so obviously spends in the gym.
“You have to woo me,” I announce.
“I’m not trying to date you,” he replies. “This is just about sex.”
My nipples pinch as he says the word sex , like it’s forbidden.
“Right.” I tap my temple. “Sex is ninety percent a mind game.”
“Not the kind of sex I like.” His eyebrow quirks, and I squeeze my thighs together as I imagine him closer, so close I can feel his breath on my neck.
Maybe him saying something like that should be off-putting, like sex is a sport to him, but I can’t help being intrigued. What’s the kind of sex he likes? And would I like it?
But I’m not afraid to make him work for it. Just a little. “So you just want a hole?” I ask and wince, hoping it’s not the case.
“That’s not what I said,” he says, his voice lowered as he stares at me. How can just a look from a man be the reason my skin is covered in goose bumps? “Sex is physical.” He draws the words out and it’s intense, like he’s reading the work of ancient philosophers.
I need to lighten the mood. “Are you into whips and chains and stuff?” I ask.
He pauses. “Are you?”
I pull in a breath as I consider his question. “Not so far. But I wouldn’t rule it out. If I really liked a guy, I’d probably give it a go. But I think I’d know by now if that was my thing, wouldn’t I?” I look at him expectantly. He’s older. He should know about these things.
He chuckles. “I have no idea. But as humans, I think we should allow ourselves room to grow and change.”
“Right,” I say, studying him. I wasn’t expecting him to answer me properly. Definitely not with an answer so profound. It feels like he really believes that. That we’re all capable of growing. “I like that idea,” I say. “Everyone expects children to grow and change and then suddenly you’re grown up and you’re just meant to stop. It’s human nature to evolve, right? I have so many things I want to do—lots of different things. Why do I have to limit myself?”
“You don’t have to limit yourself,” he replies. “Not with me, anyway.”
Something settles in me. I smile up at him. It’s a smile that says, hey, I like you, you’re interesting.
“Be careful with that thing,” he says and takes another sip of his drink.
“What thing?” I ask.
“Your smile. Use it wisely.”
My eyes flick to the line of spirits at the back of the bar so he can’t see quite how much I enjoyed his compliment.
“Wisely? Is it a weapon? You think it’s my superpower?”
He glances all the way down to my feet and back up, his gaze a blowtorch and I’m ice. I soften and melt, feeling my fight disappear.
“I think you have many powers,” he says, his tone gravelly, his eyes heated.
“Maybe I’ll go through a spanking phase or whips or whatever,” I say, slower now. My mind is so full of him, I’m struggling to form a thought. “I’m just not there now.” I pause, wondering if that’s what he expects. “Is that a dealbreaker for you?”
“Not a dealbreaker,” he replies. “It’s not my kink either.”
Thank god.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask.
He gives me that smirk again. “I’m beginning to suspect I shouldn’t even try to guess what you think you should know.”
“Good assumption.” I consider whether there’s other incidental information we should share before I take him up on his offer. Because I really want to see this guy naked. I really want those large hands roaming my body. I really want to know what a more experienced man, a man who looks and talks like he does, could do to me. “Do you have condoms?” I ask. “And where do you live? I’m a block away.”
He doesn’t reply. He turns back to the bar and gestures for the barman. He signs off two bills and stands. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’m downtown. Let’s go to your place.”