Chapter 6
Six
Spencer
I try to move but something heavy is pinning my chest.
I glance down, already knowing I’ll find two yellow eyes staring back at me. The black cat perched squarely on my sternum flicks his tail once, completely unimpressed.
“Alright, Fucker,” I sigh. “You need to move.”
He doesn’t.
Sliding one hand beneath him, I gently but firmly lift him off me, depositing him beside the pillow. He grumbles in a low, offended mewl.
My feet slip into the Prada shearling-lined mules waiting precisely where they belong beside the bed.
I cross the bedroom in long, efficient strides and move into the ensuite.
In the glorious master closet I had custom designed, I strip out of my black silk sleep pants and slip into shorts, a compression shirt, and tennis shoes.
I snag my phone and ear pods off the charger on the way out of my bedroom and step across the hall into my home office slash gym combo.
My morning routine consists of an hour at a brisk pace on a steep incline.
I can get emails answered, appointments scheduled while still getting a good sweat in.
Plus, the incline keeps my lower body—which I’m already genetically blessed with—in top shape.
At 4:15, I hop off the treadmill to go shower.
The bathroom fills with steam as I step into the glass-encased stall. Heat hits my shoulders and rolls down my spine.
It’s the same every day.
But today—my brain betrays me.
Ryan.
Ryan and his damn selfie. I scrub a hand over my chest.
The nerve of that guy.
Why would he even send me a picture like that?
All post-workout glow, muscles pumped up like he just got done shooting one of his sports drink commercials.
And those stupid dimples.
Not just two dimples either.
Apparently, the universe decided two wasn’t devastating enough and planted a third one right on his chin. I grab the shampoo bottle and work it into my hair a little more aggressively than necessary.
I am absolutely not weak for dimples.
I certainly did not open my messages to look at that selfie nine more times. And I most definitely did not jerk off twice to it before finally falling asleep.
My jaw tenses and water streams down my body as I glance down. My cock is already half hard just thinking about that damn selfie.
Fantastic.
I sigh toward the ceiling.
Ryan is lucky I don’t entertain teasing, let alone doing anything with straight men. It’s one of my rules. I have four when it comes to sex, and that one is as iron-clad as the other three.
Ryan Buterbaugh is lucky that rule exists.
I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and cut that train of thought off completely.
No. Absolutely not.
I step out of the shower, grab a towel, and wrap it around my waist. The bathroom door creaks open a second later and a familiar meow echoes across the tile. I look down and Fucker is weaving between my ankles. “No. Don’t rub against me,” I warn.
He does it anyway.
“You know I’m going to feed you. Our routine never changes.” He meows again, louder and more demanding.
“Come on, Fucker,” I sigh. “Coffee for me and breakfast for you.”
I pull on a pair of black boxer briefs, slide my feet back into the mules, and head into the kitchen. Fucker trots behind me the entire way, narrating the journey with impatient complaints.
My condo kitchen is massive.
Ridiculously so.
Polished stone counters. Industrial appliances. Enough cabinet space for a chef preparing a five-course meal.
Too bad I only use it for coffee and cat food.
I open the cabinet and pull down the ceramic cat dish.
Open a drawer.
Retrieve a spoon.
Routine.
From the fridge, I grab a tin of the absurdly expensive gourmet cat food Jen insists is “nutritionally superior.”
I scoop a portion into the dish and set it on the floor.
“There,” I grumble.
Fucker dives into it like he hasn’t eaten in three days.
“Happy now?”
I shake my head and move toward the espresso machine.
I could kill Jen.
When this condo opened up, I moved fast on it. I outbid three other buyers without blinking. When you make it your life’s mission to be better than the rest, it pays off.
Corner unit, larger floorplan, two blocks from the firm.
Most of the additional square footage went to this absurd luxury kitchen. Like I said—never use it. But I saw the unit and immediately knew I wanted it.
Needed it.
Everything about it was clean. Ordered. Perfect.
I had barely unpacked the last box when Jen showed up that weekend. I opened the door and she shoved a tiny black fur ball into my arms and ran away laughing. That bitch avoided my calls and texts all weekend.
On Monday morning I cornered her in the office. She didn’t even apologize. She jabbed a finger into my chest and said, “You need this, Spencer. A little disruption to your sacred routine. Give it a try. Maybe someday you can move up to a human disruption.”
I press a button and the machine grinds the espresso beans while the memory grates against the back of my mind.
Knowing Jen, there was never a world where she was taking the cat back. And I refuse to step foot inside a shelter of any kind ever again.
So, now I own a cat. He’s actually not terrible, keeps to himself, fairly clean. Quiet, most of the time. I might even give him a real name one day.
It’s been a year, though, and we manage fine as is. No need to rush these things.
Captain Commitment-Phobe at your service.
The espresso machine hisses to life.
Seconds later, a shot of dark coffee fills the tiny cup. I drink it standing at the counter. Quick, efficient, done.
The cup gets rinsed and placed in the dishwasher.
Then I head to the walk-in closet. Rows of perfectly spaced garments greet me.
Everything pressed.
Everything organized.
I select a black Armani suit, sliding it carefully off the hanger. A black Ferragamo dress shirt and a silver Hermès tie.
Dressing properly takes time—deliberate movements.
Every button aligned, tie knotted with precise symmetry. My custom etched silver cufflinks click neatly into place. One has my initials, the other is simply a number… twenty-two.
Finally, I step into my black Prada brushed Spazzolato shoes, the leather gleaming beneath the closet lighting.
I return the mules to their exact spot inside the custom shoe drawer I had built and head to my foyer, grab my city bag, and slide the strap across my body.
As I move toward the front door, Fucker looks up from grooming his paw.
I point at him. “Be good, Fucker.”
By 5:32 a.m., I’m already on my way to the office, right on schedule. I walk the two short blocks to the office, choose to take the stairs this morning, and step out onto the floor of Bowen, Saxon & Finley. The first thing that greets me is silence.
Perfect.
The bullpen stretches out across the open space to my left—rows of desks, monitors dark, chairs neatly tucked in. Not a single paralegal or junior associate in sight yet.
My favorite time of the day.
Quiet hours—the entire reason I get up before dawn.
From five-thirty to about eight-thirty, the firm belongs to me. No calls. No partners dropping in. No paralegals needing something “quick.” No meetings that could have been an email.
Just work.
I walk past the empty bullpen, my shoes clicking softly against the polished floor.
I’m almost to my office when movement catches my eye. Someone is standing near my door. By the time I reach it, the door is closing and my new assistant turns toward me.
She smiles easily. “Oh—good morning, Mr. Stark. Sorry, I was just stocking the beverages in your office.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying her.
She continues, completely unfazed by my scrutiny. “I noticed your last assistant only had still water and ginger ale on offer,” she says matter-of-factly. “That just won’t do.”
I say nothing but she keeps going. “I had two sparkling water options, diet and regular sodas, and vegetable juice delivered. Now you can offer a variety to clients.”
I blink. “Thank you, Dita,” I finally say. “That’s very observant. But it’s not even six in the morning. You know you don’t need to be here until nine, right?”
She shakes her head then holds out her hand, palm up.
I raise a brow.
“Bag,” she says calmly. “Jacket.”
I stare at her.
She stares right back.
Slowly, I slide the strap of my bag over my head and place it in her waiting hand. She steps closer and helps me slip out of my jacket, then she moves around me toward her desk.
I watch her closely. Her finger is hooked carefully inside the collar of the jacket, so it doesn’t crease.
She opens the bottom drawer of her desk, pulls out a hanger, and slides the jacket onto it with practiced efficiency.
“I’m here when you’re here, Mr. Stark,” she says, walking back to open my office door, and gestures inside.
I step through and she follows, crossing the room to the wardrobe closet tucked into the corner. The jacket disappears onto the rack inside. She turns back to me, holding my bag in both hands.
“I asked around about your schedule,” she continues. “In before six. Out no earlier than eight. Your hours are my hours.”
I lean back against the edge of my desk. “You don’t need to do that,” I say. “You also don’t need to take my coat and bag. This isn’t the nineteen hundreds. It feels a little—”
“Oh, trust me,” she cuts in smoothly. “I’m no one’s footstool.” She sets my bag neatly beside my desk. “This isn’t me waiting on you,” she continues. “This is about billable hours. The faster your butt gets in that chair, the faster you can get to work.”
I fold my arms. “We’re talking about a sixty-second task here.”
Dita cocks a brow at me. “Minutes add up.” Then she points to my chair. “Okay. Butt meet seat. You have a busy day, Mr. Stark.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. I push off the desk and walk toward my chair. “Please, call me Spencer,” I say as I sit. “That is non-negotiable.”
She smiles. “See? Already kicking ass.”
I settle into the chair.
“Okay,” she says. “Your first appointment is at nine. There’s only a first name listed. Tyler.”
“Yes. That’s a standing appointment,” I advise her. “And Dita?”
“Yes, Mr. Stark? Sorry, I mean, Spencer?”
“Tyler is never to be rescheduled. Unless he requests it himself. Even then, I need to know why,” I say with a serious tone. I need her to know this is important.
Dita opens her phone—to her Notes app, I presume.
“Is he a VIP?”
“You could say that.”
She taps keys on her phone then looks up at me and says, “Noted.”
I lean back in my chair, impressed. Again. “Thank you, Dita.”
“You’re welcome.” She opens the door slightly. “Do you need anything else?”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Yes, actually.”
She waits, patient.
I meet her eyes and give her the sincerest look I’m capable of. “Just—don’t quit.”
She laughs. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”