Chapter 2
PIP
The elevator opens directly into his penthouse, all glass and midnight views.
I’m still trembling—I don’t know whether from the incident downstairs, his nearness, or how fast everything is happening.
“You can call me Snickers,” he says, motioning me inside with an easy flick of his hand.
I arch a brow. “Appropriate name for a DJ. I’m Pollyanna.”
He makes a face. “As in, ‘Polly wants a cracker’?”
“Exactly. What, are you ornithophobic or something?”
He laughs. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Someone with an irrational fear of birds.”
“No fear of birds, but I do have a horror of ridiculous names. I’ll rebrand you by the end of the night.”
A pulse of heat flutters through me at what that could mean. I bristle, pushing it down. Who does he think he is, rebranding me like JLo or old-school Brangelina?
He nods toward the hall. “Come, the bathroom’s at the end. We should clean up that cut.”
As I follow his lead, I’m impressed by this man’s space and style. Everything gleams—marble, chrome, mirrors multiplying the twinkling city lights.
The bathroom alone is bigger than the bedroom I share with my roomie, Keesha. A freestanding marble soaking tub commands the center like a work of art.
Imagine soaking in a tub like that. With bubbles. Maybe even sipping Champagne like I've seen in some old black-and-white films...
“Ups-a-daisy,” he murmurs, lifting me onto the cool marble counter as if I weigh nothing. He grabs a pristine towel and steps between my knees, his body warm and close.
“Hold still.”
His fingers brush my skin, careful but firm as he dabs my shoulder. Heat licks up my spine, ridiculous considering he’s only tending to a cut.
“You have a small laceration where the beading snagged. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head—too focused on the way his touch lingers to answer properly.
“There’s a tiny bit of blood on your dress. Is it ruined?”
“Luckily, not. Windex works wonders on these glass beads.”
“Thanks for the tip. Think a squirt of that blue liquid will save my shirt?” He grins, the expression transforming his entire face.
“Oh no! You got blood on yourself, too.”
“No worries. Can I offer you some Champagne to make you feel better?”
“Definitely. Champagne makes everything better. Even better than Windex.”
He chuckles, holding up a finger. “Touché. Score one point for the flapper.”
As he leads me out of the bathroom, I take in the effortless luxury around me.
“Is this really your place?”
He nods.
“Wow. DJing must pay better than I thought.”
Something flickers in his eyes. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Have a seat while I see about the Champagne.”
I sink into the white leather sofa and quickly text Zaza to let her know I’m okay. Then add that if I go missing, my body might be found in the penthouse suite of the Mandarin Oriental hotel.
A moment later, she responds with a flurry of colorful emojis that makes me laugh.
I snap a picture of his living room and text it to her as living proof I’m actually here.
Who lives like this? Floor-to-ceiling windows frame all of Manhattan. Bridges strung with lights like a diamond necklace.
I tuck my phone away as Snickers returns. The city lights shift shadows across his face as he opens the Champagne with a satisfying pop.
He looks older than I first thought. Thirty-five? Forty?
Older than the typical club DJ.
“I can see all five bridges from here,” I say, as he hands me a glass.
“That’s why I bought the place.” He settles beside me, the leather sinking beneath his weight.
I expect him to launch into some flashy brag, but instead, his voice softens. “I had a thing for trains and bridges as a kid.”
I turn to look at him, and he’s already watching me. He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, close enough that if I leaned in just a little…
His fingers brush the nape of my neck.
His lips meet mine.
My head spins. From the Champagne. From his touch.
And from the surreal feeling of being desired by someone who seems to understand me completely.
The hot DJ and the woman who dared come up to his penthouse.
I arch into him as his fingers trace the beading on my dress. Every touch sends a delightful shiver through me.
I’ve been kissed before, but never like this.
Never with such focused intensity.
As if I’m precious and desired all at once.
When he pulls back, his sapphire eyes darken with desire.
I tug him down again, losing myself in the taste of his lips, in the weight of him pressing me into the cushions.
His hands find the soft skin beneath my dress. I gasp at the sensation. Every touch feels electric, deliberate.
He knows precisely what he’s doing, every move calculated with a confidence that thrills me.
The sensations he evokes are exquisite, a symphony of pleasure that feels utterly divine.
Every touch sends a wave of delight cascading through my body, each more intense than the last.
The whirlwind of emotions and physical reactions overwhelm me.
It’s too much, too soon.
I force myself to pull away, then straighten the straps of my dress.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak for a few moments.
“Everything’s wonderful. It’s just that you’re leaving me… a little breathless.”
Just then, I hiccup.
Damn that bubbly.
Then, as if to add insult to injury, my belly grumbles.
We both laugh.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“Lunch. I was so swamped with things before meeting Zaza I couldn't squeeze in a meal."
"What do you say to a late supper?"
“Supper?” I look at my watch. It’s pushing midnight. What kind of places do rich, hot-looking DJs go so late?
My imagination conjures up visions of some hip, nostalgic dive, reminiscent of the legendary Max’s Kansas City. A place where icons like Andy Warhol and Janis Joplin once roamed.
"Sure. Where?"
Snickers gives me a sly grin, his fingertip tracing a gentle line up my exposed arm. My core tingles at his touch.
"I'm thinking a lady as stunning as you deserves the best. Picture this: a single red rose on a white tablecloth, a dazzling view, and dishes crafted by a celebrity chef..."
"Right," I chuckle. "All the top-tier Manhattan spots are closed or on the brink of it. I know you’re a rich celebrity, but you’re talking like you have a famous chef on speed dial.”
“You’re absolutely spot-on about that.”
I watch as he taps at his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ll see.”