Chapter 3
Paige
Standing in my bedroom after a long day, I’m ready to crawl into bed when the lousy patch job on the wall grabs my attention. The plaster is bumpy around the edges of a two-foot-wide misshapen circle.
When I left for work this morning, a hole had been there. A hole hidden by a mirror when I’d toured the place before renting. Like many other things, I added it to the list of things for the landlord to fix.
My heart jumps into my throat. My landlord has been in my home.
Again. It’s been a day less than a week since the last incident when I found him in my place.
Afterward, I’d warned him in writing of his inappropriate behavior and that I’d take action if he did it again.
There was no response, but I figured he had gotten the message. Boy, was I wrong.
I grab my phone, ready to dial Tom, the police, or even my parents, as I rewind my steps since coming home, trying to recall if anything else was out of place or magically fixed. Shit, what if he’s still here like last time?
With my phone in hand, I methodically search for signs of an intruder and check all the windows and doors to make sure they are locked. Nothing else is out of place.
Nerves frayed, I text Tom to come over—being alone right now gives me the heebie-jeebies—and while waiting for his reply, I call my big brother.
Drew answers on the third ring. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“My landlord was in my house again without my permission.” My words are a jumble, fighting for release.
“Put him on the phone.”
“He isn’t here.” I recount every detail right up until I called him. “What do I do? He’s obviously not going to stick to our agreement.”
“This is harassment. We could call the cops and they’ll take note of the incidents, but there isn’t much else they can do right now. You didn’t see him tonight, did you?”
“No, but I know it was him. There are no signs of a break-in and no burglar is going to fix a hole in the wall.”
“Yeah, but he can say he fixed the hole a while ago or you made it up.”
“So basically, I’m shit out of luck?”
“No. We have to go at him through the right channels. Make note of the dates and times he’s been in violation, take down all the details. There’s a government agency that advocates for tenants. You should report this and they’ll take action. At least we’ll have it on record.”
“Does this mean I have to move?”
“I think you should. Ontario now has standardized rental agreements and if memory serves me right, you must give sixty days’ notice to terminate. In your agreement, are there any additional penalties for breaking the terms of your lease?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Start looking for a place and in the meantime, let’s get this ball rolling.”
“What does that even mean?” I have at least a dozen boxes left to unpack, so that’s a good thing because I hate moving.
But the hunt for another place is depressing. It’s hard to find a decent rental in a safe and affordable neighborhood. I want to throat punch my jerk of a landlord.
“Paige, I’m sorry but I’ve got a conference call in five minutes.”
“It’s seven thirty in the evening and you’re still working?”
“Yeah, it’s a new case and long story. Do you want to talk to Pip?”
Normally, I’d jump at the chance, but I don’t want to go through it again. “No, not right now.”
“Okay. I’ll fill her in. There’s someone who owes me a favor who could help. He’s in Toronto. I’ll text the details.”
“Okay.”
“And Paige?”
“Yeah?”
“Go stay with Mom and Sam. You may not want to but living with them, even for a few weeks, doesn’t mean you’re a loser.”
I snort at how well he knows me. Next to my successful brother, I feel like a mess and going home seems like failure. Logically, I know I had nothing to do with this and my family wouldn’t blame me, but right now I’m overrun with emotions.
“Right.” My voice softens, so grateful for my brother. “Thank you. Love you, loser.”
Drew chuckles at my joke. Things wouldn’t be right between us if one of us didn’t take the chance to jab at the other. “I’ll give you that but only because I set it up so well. Love you. Talk soon.”
Ending the call, Tom’s reply pops up. He’s already out but will come over if I need him. He, too, is sweet, but I let him off the hook. This is my problem.
True to his word, by Monday, Drew has the government housing agency working on notifying my landlord of his violation, which comes with a fine if he does it again.
And he’s arranged for me to meet with Zachary Rothwell, CEO of Rothwell Enterprises, today.
How he pulled that off over the weekend, I don’t know.
I know very little about the man, but I’m surprised a powerful businessman like Rothwell owes Drew and it isn’t clear how he can help.
I sit in the swanky reception area of Rothwell Enterprises, waiting to be called when a buxom blonde heads toward me. Her strawberry-red lips curl into a smile. “Ms. Hayes, I’m Karen Michaels, Mr. Rothwell’s assistant. Please follow me.”
“Sure.” I spring from the comfy tub chair and sling my purse over my shoulder.
The offices are bright and modern, and she leads me along several floor-to-ceiling windowed hallways to a large corner office. “Mr. Rothwell will be with you in a moment. Would you like some water, coffee, tea, or anything else?”
“No, thank you, Karen.”
She gestures to a wingback chair facing the large desk, which is neat and orderly, and closes the door behind her.
The desk has a large computer screen on one side with an expensive laptop in front of it, and a stack of file folders easily a foot high is at the other end.
Two picture frames also rest on the desk.
One picture is of a teenaged boy with a couple. They are all smiling and affectionate in their gazes and postures. A more ornate picture frame holds the other photograph, of an elegant elderly woman with the same boy, only he’s now a young man and looks vaguely familiar.
Behind me, someone clears their throat and I jump, turning to face a striking, well-dressed man.
Mr. Rothwell. He has at least eight inches on my own five foot six, and while I’ve never met him, I’ve seen his face online and once on the cover of a prominent national business magazine while I waited in my doctor’s office.
“Ms. Hayes?” He extends his hand, readily engulfing mine in his large, smooth palm. “Zachary Rothwell.”
“Hello. Please call me Paige.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” He flicks his chin in the direction of his desk, suggesting I was snooping, as an amused grin pulls at his full lips. Flames lick at my cheeks.
“I was just…” I pause, clearing my throat, and then flash a sassy grin of my own. There’s no point protesting since I didn’t do anything wrong.
“What can I do for you?” He casually slides into the black leather chair behind his desk while running a hand through his wavy dark hair.
Piercing blue eyes stare at me, willing me to speak. He is a pretty man, maybe too pretty. Too much of a good thing, and that doesn’t appeal to me. I like my men edgy and unconventional. The opposite of this man. He’s so pretty, he’s guaranteed to be boring.
“What did Drew tell you?”
“Not much. He mentioned I may be able to help you. I owe him, so tell me more.”
My curiosity hijacks the topic at hand. “How does a guy like you owe my brother?”
I’m not surprised Drew has crossed paths with Rothwell. When living in Toronto, my brother practiced law for the Ministry of the Attorney General and knew many wealthy and powerful people.
“A guy like me?” His voice is a deep rumble and his eyes twinkle roguishly. “What exactly do you mean, Paige?”
He lingers on my name as if I’m a wicked proposition and I’m intrigued. He’s certainly holding my attention even if his ultra-confidence irritates me. He’s unlike the men I am used to in many ways.
While the men I’ve dated are rough around the edges, most are a cliché, and even if they come off cocky, it’s usually false bravado covering for something they feel they are lacking.
Now that I think about it, most of them were one-dimensional and for the most part, predictable. What you see is what you get. Simple.
“I didn’t mean anything.” I bite my bottom lip to stop from saying more.
One dark brow quirks, and his eyes drop to my mouth. Super intense, hot even, and heat floods my core. “Didn’t Drew tell you?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if he did.”
“True.” He chuckles and shifts ever so slightly in his seat, adjusting the lapels of his suit. “Drew helped me out with a client in New York. He took the case and, more importantly, won.”
“Okay. Drew’s an awesome lawyer, but you would have paid him for his expertise and counsel, right?” He nods, prompting me to go on. “So why do you still owe him?”
“That’s between Drew and me.” His comment is meant to be vague and mysterious and I huff, now unamused.
He’s toying with me and while that might not be his intention, I don’t particularly care for it. “Mr. Rothwell, will you help me or not?”
“Firstly, it’s Zach. And secondly, I can’t help if I don’t understand the circumstances and what the problem is.”
He steeples his fingertips in front of him, elbows on the edge of the desk, and the ends of his suit sleeves slide back to reveal a Rolex Submariner around his left wrist.
This guy is the real deal. The watch costs thousands of dollars and here I am proud of my one and only pair of Louboutins.
Shaking off the bizarreness of this meeting—I don’t belong in this world nor do I want any part of it, yet I want to know how he can help me—I tell him everything about Joel Hummel and end with my conversation with the housing agency.
“Well, it does sound like you need help. But I should tell you that I’m not a lawyer.”
“Yes, Drew did mention that, but he said once I explained, you’d know what to do.”
“I have a stable of top-notch lawyers, experts in residential law in every province in Canada and a number of states. I’ll get one of them on this right away.”