Chapter 4
AMARA
Zero. Four. One. Nine. One. Four.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The deadbolt turns and it’s almost like the penthouse lets out a breath as I push the door open slowly.
It’s the same high as a robber on a bank heist movie gets when they crack into the safe.
Like, I am most definitely not supposed to be here, but my whole life has led up to me being here, and God, it feels pretty damn good.
It’s not the first time I’ve been in Ransome’s penthouse, though it’s a rare enough occurrence that every time feels like the first. The thing I always notice immediately is the smell.
It’s posh as fuck, if that’s a thing a smell can be.
It goes with the whole vibe: we’re talking sleek, varnished flooring and stainless steel appliances, acres of marble countertoppage and a couch that looks deep enough to swallow me whole.
All the furniture is leather. The windows, floor-to-ceiling like in his office at Apex, don’t open, so the air inside is made up of his exhales. His pheromones. Him.
Salt. Cedar. A touch of musk.
My thighs feel hot just from the scent.
It’s neither overstated nor understated, with just enough art on the walls to feel like a capital-S Someone lives here. A Someone with taste and money and status.
I wander through the place, only daring to look, not to touch, even though I want to touch so badly.
There’s a guitar hanging on the wall in his bedroom.
I always glance at that guitar. I wonder if he plays it.
I wonder if his fingers have slid up and down the fretboard.
If his other hand has plucked the strings.
And then I wonder what that would feel like…
I set the dry cleaning down on the counter, suddenly very much needing a glass of water. I am not too concerned about him knowing I used a glass from his pristinely organized kitchen cabinet—I take extra special care to clean anything of his I use while I am here.
I fill the glass and drink, then wash and dry it, then run a paper towel around the basin of the sink so he doesn’t see it freshly wet. Part of me desperately wants to leave a lipstick stain on the rim of the glass, but I tell myself that’d be a very bad idea.
Ransome has a bundle of fresh oranges in his fridge at all times.
The OCD girl in me, the one who spent most of her life taking care of three younger siblings, shopping and cooking for them, is always tempted to take them out of the fridge and set them on the counter.
Citrus doesn’t need to be refrigerated. But I wouldn’t dare correct him.
I made that mistake once, four days after being hired.
He asked me to order lunch from a nearby Thai place.
When I told him they were out of the curry chicken he usually ordered, he asked for Singapore noodles.
They prepare them in three heat levels—mild, hot, and Thai hot.
He asked for Thai hot and I asked if he was sure.
Ransome looked me dead in the eyes, pulling his attention away from his schedule (which was already a blaring warning sign), and said, “What are you presuming, Miss Parker? Do I look like a man who doesn’t know what he wants?”
I ducked my head, ordered the Thai hot, and never corrected him again.
I am not supposed to linger when I am at the penthouse. Go in, hang the dry cleaning, leave. He’s never said that in those exact words, but like everything else Ransome Rozanov communicates through presence alone, it’s very much insinuated.
Sighing, I take the dry cleaning to his closet.
Two fresh-pressed suits that I picked up from the cleaners after dropping the others off.
My mind wanders back to the red shirt from earlier.
To the way he just left it hanging open while he put on his socks and shoes.
The way his abs rippled and flexed as he moved.
It felt so domestic standing there with him, watching him dress and then undress again when I pointed out the spot on the collar.
The spot that looked like blood.
I finger through the other red shirts, squinting for stains, but they’re all pristine.
Everything smells like him. Like the soap in his shower.
Like the cologne sitting on the shelf in the closet.
I grab one of the white shirts from the middle of the line and spritz it with the cologne before rolling it up and heading for the door.
He will be coming back soon and I don’t want to get caught lingering.
I’m never to linger. My rule, not his. He can’t know about the relationship we have. About my obsession for him.
I eye the glass on the counter, realizing it still needs to be washed. But then… I see it.
There is one door in Ransome Rozanov’s penthouse that is always closed. Always locked. It’s his home office and I’ve never been inside it. And right now, that door is ajar…
I know I shouldn’t.
I know it’s wrong. An invasion of privacy and a break of the trust I’ve been given.
… but the things that room must hold…
Who is Ransome Rozanov when he leaves the office at night? Why does this man with such status and stature and the sexiest fucking scowl I’ve ever seen seem to operate on high alert all the time? Why so many changes of clothes? Why was there blood on his collar but no nick on his face?
I need to know.
I step inside, carefully pushing the large wooden door open only enough to walk through.
In many ways, it’s not at all what I was expecting it to be.
The desk, with nothing on it except a couple books about entrepreneurship and a coffee mug identical to the one at the office, is smaller than the one at work.
It’s still huge, but more modern, more minimalist. There is a light gray rug underneath and a black, leather roller chair.
The walls are a gunmetal gray with a large, monochromatic, abstract painting in the middle behind the desk.
A few wood plank shelves hold more books, what appears to be an arrangement of succulents, and an old-fashioned radio.
My skin pricks with the excitement of seeing new sides of him. A side that nurtures plants (even if it is one that requires the absolute barest minimum of human interference to grow) and a radio that, like the guitar, suggests he likes music.
I look back at the desk and see a single drawer underneath. Knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to resist, I pull it open softly. Three pens are lined perfectly in the bottom of the shallow drawer next to a notebook.
My heart leaps in my chest. Nothing says jackpot like an actual notebook.
I pull it out and open it carefully, the way you do at a bookstore when you’re afraid to break the spine. Inside I find his handwriting, handwriting I know well—and yet, this is different.
It’s not about Apex. It’s a schedule. A map, with names and places all foreign to me.
It’s gold, is what it is.
I pull out my phone in a frenzy. There are too many pages to take snapshots of, so instead, I set it to slow-mo and take a video as I flip through the notebook, holding the pages wide to make sure everything is visible.
It takes all of ten seconds and then I’m able to carefully place the notebook back in the drawer and close it.
When I’m done, I see a phone on the edge of the desk, hiding behind the coffee mug. I pick it up and the screen comes on. It’s not locked.
“What the heck…?” I ask out loud.
There are no apps. There are no contacts. A burner, maybe? A new one he hasn’t activated yet? Either way, he has it for a reason. Which means it may end up on his person. Which means if I know where this phone is… then, with the location tracking enabled…
… I’ll know where he is, even when he’s not at the office.
I look around, literally feeling like the clock is audibly ticking through my veins. Maybe that’s my heart, which is slamming into my ribcage right now.
I share the location and hurriedly put it back.
I am about to leave, because Lord knows I am really in a danger zone right now, but then something else catches my eye.
“Oh… my… God…” The words escape my mouth in a whisper and my mouth stays popped open as I approach the wall next to the closet. In a black, square-shaped frame is a vinyl record. It caught my attention because it’s Queen. Original press. It’s holding my gaping attention because it’s signed.
Queen. My favorite band of all time.
It’s like he knows. As if I needed another sign that we’re so perfect together, Ransome and me.
“Unreal.” I shake my head.
Suddenly, I hear the security system. Fuck. He probably thinks I already left and he’s relocking the door.
But then I hear something else, too. Not the security system—the door.
Someone else is here.