Chapter 3
WREN
Islam the door of my apartment shut as I lean up against it.
My nervous system is still a wreck from the fucking elevator—and also from being stuck in there with him of all people.
I am still reeling from having been so vulnerable in front of him.
The one person who I need to take me seriously, and there I was, having a panic attack in a goddamn elevator.
And what did he do?
He took care of me.
He protected me. Shielded me. Helped me through it.
And the little zings I felt every time he touched me didn’t go unnoticed. My whole body felt them, and my raging hormones mixed with my anxiety was enough to put me over the edge.
Despite my panic, there were a few moments in that elevator where I forgot that we were stuck. I was enthralled in him. In his scent, his honey-colored eyes. His scruffy, square jaw, his perfect lips. I wanted to let go and let him take control.
But that’s exactly what Brooks Everett is used to. Women laying down for him—in every possible way, I imagine—and doing whatever he wants because of who he is.
I tried to let him know where I stood before I left that building.
While I appreciated what he did for me while we were in there, he needed to know that nothing had changed.
I’m still dedicated to getting to the bottom of this.
I’m still a journalist. I’m still looking for the truth.
And no devastatingly handsome billionaire is going to throw me off.
But the truth is, I don’t know if I said all that for him…or for me.
I probably could have used the convincing just as much as he did. But it’s not going well. And before I am able to cool down with some self-care, I’m at my tiny little dining room table, in my pajamas, with a cup of water, one foot up on the chair, and my laptop, searching away.
The headlines should make me feel better.
Youngest Everett Brother in Trouble Again.
The “Other” Everett Brother Parties Hard in Milan
Youngest Son of Cato Everett Destroys Another Resort
It’s not exactly like he has his shit together.
But then I see some more.
Brooks Everett Spotted with Italian Supermodel Francesca P.
Youngest Everett Brother Steps out in NYC with New Mystery Woman
Brooks and Sienna? Everett Brother Seen with Pop Star in SoHo
Not only is he a serial partier, but he’s a serial womanizer too.
Each headline is accompanied by a photo of him with a different jaw-droppingly gorgeous woman, and in some instances, more than one.
And in every single photo, he is also obnoxiously jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
His tan skin glows like he has an airbrush artist that follows him everywhere.
His yellow-brown eyes glow in every photo—even the shitty ones—and his smile is absolutely fucking killer.
It simultaneously makes my blood boil and my vagina tingle.
Asshole.
As much as these headlines should prove to me that his life isn’t so perfect, and make me feel better about our situation earlier, it doesn’t.
Because all I notice is him. With a female on his arm.
And I want to be her.
The way his hand rests on their hips or his arm drapes protectively around their shoulder. The way he helps them in and out of their cars, or how he has his hand rested on the small of their backs.
Ugh.
I slam my laptop shut dramatically and stand up from the table, walking toward the kitchen. But my phone vibrating violently across the table makes me jump. And when I see the words Unknown Caller, I practically leap across the table to grab it.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Wren, hi,” I hear Julian’s calming voice on the other line.
“I’m sorry to bother you again so quickly, but we just got word that the job post is going up earlier than we anticipated.
Sounds like they are trying to get it posted by Monday morning.
Are you able to meet with us tomorrow morning to go through some details? ”
My stomach twists and turns and does a lot of unpleasant things.
“Yes, of course,” I say breathless. Then I remember that tomorrow is Sunday. I have to be done by three. I promised. “I just have to be done by three o’clock. No later.”
“Done. No problem. I will send a car to pick you up around nine? We can get some breakfast and come back to my place,” he says.
“Sounds good. See you then.”
I hang up and walk to the living room, sinking into my couch.
Shit is getting real.
In a matter of hours, a job will be posted that I will apply for.
And if all goes right, my name will cross over the desk of one of the most powerful men in the world.
And if all goes wrong, I may never be the same.
I jolt awake when I hear a loud banging. I sit up, disoriented, blinking my eyes wildly. I’m on my couch, my phone next to me on my coffee table. I tap the screen.
Fuck.
9:13 a.m.
Ten texts.
Three missed calls.
And someone banging like hell on my door.
I scramble to my feet, running across my apartment and yanking the door open without thinking.
“I’m so sorry…” I say, expecting one of Julian’s drivers to be waiting for me. But my jaw drops, and my arms fly up to cover my chest when I see none other than fucking Brooks.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
And of course, his lips pull up into that fucking smirk that I’ve been staring at online for the last twelve hours.
“Rough night?” he says, leaning up against my doorjamb. I roll my eyes.
“I’ll be out in four minutes,” I say, slamming the door in his face.
I scramble back through my apartment, pulling on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve black top, and a pair of Nikes. I throw on some mascara, tug my hair up into a clip, and grab my backpack, shoving my jersey inside and zipping it up.
And in about three minutes and forty seconds, I’m back at the door, opening it and pulling it closed behind me, trying like hell to keep my composure.
“Why are you here?” I ask him, leading him to the stairs of my walkup. “And how do you know where I live?”
“My brother sent a car for me. I thought it would be more efficient if we just scooped you on the way. Ya know, environment and all that,” he says, waving his hand. I roll my eyes and scoff.
“Please,” I say, “I’ve seen the pictures of your yachts and cars and parties. Let’s not pretend you care about the planet.”
“You’ve been stalking me?” he asks, and without looking, I can practically hear the smirk on his face.
I ignore him as we get to the main lobby and walk toward the door.
As we get to it, he holds it open, and I nod in thanks.
And then, as we get to the big SUV that’s waiting for us, he reaches out and opens the door.
And just like with the girls in those photos, he holds one hand out for me, and I take it with no hesitation, letting him help me into the car. As he does, I feel the zap of his other hand on my lower back, guiding me in before he closes the door behind me.
I give myself the three seconds it takes for him to walk around the car for me to get over the fucking butterflies he just gave me.
He gets in, and the driver peels out.
“So, everything good?” he asks, leaning back against the black leather as he eyes me up and down.
“Yes, everything’s fine,” I say, refusing to offer him more. No way in hell I’m admitting to him that I fell asleep while internet stalking him and forgot to set an alarm for what might possibly be the biggest meeting of my professional career.
“Okey doke,” he says. “Not a morning person, I take it.”
I whip my head to him.
“And I take it you are,” I say. He shrugs and smiles.
“I don’t hate ‘em,” he says. I blow out a condescending laugh.
“I imagine it’s a little easier to wake up each day when you have a billion dollars and a few models waiting for ya,” I say sarcastically.
“Whoa, whoa,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Easy, tiger.”
We ride in silence for the next few minutes until we pull into the fortress that is Julian’s apartment building.
We finally get to what can only be described as a castle in the middle of New York City.
We pull into a separate garage entrance, and the driver scans some sort of keycard.
He parks the car into a reserved space and then gets out, but before he can get to my door, Brooks is on the outside, opening it and holding out his arm for me to step out.
He's smiling, and be it panty-dropping as always, there's something behind it.
There's something devious to it, like I'm the butt of a joke that I don't know about.
I slide off the leather seat, and he closes the door behind me as the driver leads us to a large elevator door. He scans the badge again, and the doors open. Brooks holds his hand out yet again.
“After you,” he says. I step on reluctantly and draw in a long breath.
I know that Julian lives at the very top of this monstrous building, so stairs are not an option unless I was planning to have a heart attack today.
But as the doors close and I'm in a tight, closed-off space yet again, I realize that a heart attack is definitely still on the table.
I draw in a sharp breath through my nose and close my eyes for a moment, trying to stay grounded.