Chapter 1
Henry
I balanced the three boxes I’d picked up from the package room in my arms and leaned back against the mirrored wall of the elevator.
Over the top of my stack, I gave Mrs. Wilmore a nod and a fond smile.
She was one of the few senior citizens who lived in the iconic Perrault Building.
She and her late husband had been residents for decades.
Most tenants were single workaholics who valued the building for its round-the-clock manned lobby, state-of-the-art fitness center, and prime location in Chicago’s business district—The Loop.
We weren’t interested in the building's storied history, but Mrs. Wilmore had told me bits and pieces over the years.
“Have a nice evening,” I murmured as she exited on her floor.
“You too, Henry.”
I braced myself, half expecting her to pinch me on her way out of the elevator.
Which cheek she’d go for—butt or face—was anyone’s guess.
Sadly, if she chose my ass, it would be more action than I’d gotten in far too long.
In all fairness to Mrs. W, the only time she had gone for the booty was after the building’s holiday party, and she’d hit the eggnog hard that night.
Not all forty-seven-year-old men could still stir the juices of an octogenarian. I groaned inwardly at how low I’d sunk.
It had been a long day; all I wanted was to get to my apartment, ditch my jacket and tie, and reheat the leftover chicken parmigiana in my fridge.
I’d watch a few reruns of NYPD Blue and go to bed early.
It was tax season. Crunch time for me and accountants everywhere.
April 15th couldn’t come soon enough. Although on April 16th, I’d be leaving for my younger brother’s Texas destination wedding, and that family obligation brought its own unique brand of stress.
On the fourteenth floor, I got out. Three strides down the plush carpeted hall, the topmost package balanced on my stack tumbled to the floor.
“Fuck.”
It was the box from with the stupid bow tie, cummerbund, and matching braces, AKA suspenders worn with a tux, that my brother had chosen for his groomsmen.
They were printed with cowboy hats and boots in red, white, and blue.
My brother and his fiancée had leaned hard into the Texas wedding aesthetic.
Black tie was sexy, sophisticated, and fucking black. Had they never seen a James Bond movie?
I kicked the box soccer-ball style down the hall. It careened ahead of me, bouncing off the baseboard and sliding over the navy and gold-patterned carpet. It was actually fun… stress-relieving. Not like my foot would hurt the polyester affront to men’s fashion in the package.
At my door, I dropped my other bundles and kept going.
The box and I made a full lap of the twelfth floor.
I relived my intramural soccer glory days, burning off a good deal of tension.
Thankfully, none of my neighbors caught me—repainting baseboards in a building this old probably cost a small fortune.
Out of breath and smiling, I pulled my keys from my pocket and opened my apartment door. I scooped up the other packages and kicked the stupid formal set inside. The box was beat to shit. Meh.
Henry
“F-u-c-k.” I exhaled the word into about seven syllables.
The decimated box that should have held my heinous Lone Star bow tie, cummerbund, and suspenders sat on my kitchen island.
I’d ripped open the tattered cardboard with my bare hands after eating my leftovers and downing a couple of beers.
My plan had been to take a few photos and text them to my mom.
She was the only one who might talk my brother out of this travesty.
She’d have these wedding photos for decades; was cheesy cowboy the look she wanted immortalized? I thought not.
Inside the box, where I’d expected to find the ridiculous menswear accessories, was a dented designer shoebox. A woman’s shoebox.
I reassembled the shredded cardboard enough to read the label addressed to Cindy Ash in apartment 1304. I was 1404.
“Double fuck.” I didn’t know Cindy Ash. It was a big building, and despite having been HOA treasurer for the last few years, there were still residents I didn’t know.
The outer box looked like it had met up with an angry hedge trimmer. The inner box had fared a little better. I’d squished it into a lumpy trapezoid, the largest dent perfectly matching the size and shape of my right foot.
I checked the time on the microwave clock—almost 10 p.m.
Waiting until morning to return the box was a bad idea considering real-time delivery notifications. Cindy probably already knew the box was in the building. I didn't want the Perrault's staff to get in trouble because I didn't check the address before leaving the package room.
I’d bring chocolate and a note. Drop everything at Cindy’s door and dash for the elevator at a full run. No woman could turn down a gourmet chocolate bar from Chicago’s own Vosges Haut-Chocolat.
Cindy
“Come on, Bruno.” I tugged the leash, urging all one hundred and twelve pounds of canine down the hall toward my apartment. Mastiffs are great apartment dogs despite their size. One brisk march around the block and my big guy was ready for a nap.
I paused in the process of fishing my keys out of my pocket. Huh. There was a man kneeling in front of a door near mine. No—not near mine. It was mine.
I glanced down at Bruno, the other reason I had a mastiff: they’re scary as hell—docked ears, big teeth, and a bark that could wake the dead. A single woman in the city couldn’t be too careful.
I stopped about ten feet from the stranger at my door.
“Can I help you?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Bruno sat at my heel, panting and drooling threateningly.
The man turned, half falling over as he spun toward me, catching himself awkwardly and looking up at me with a sheepish expression.
He wasn’t bad-looking. Scratch that, he was seriously handsome and a little familiar.
Thick dark hair with a hint of gray at the temples.
Broad shoulders. And a panty-melting smile that made my heart go pitter-patter.
He had sexy little wrinkles at the corners of his sapphire blue eyes.
The kind that proved he knew how to laugh and had lived a rich life full of ups and downs.
I was getting way ahead of myself. His smile wasn’t important. Why he was at my door was.
“Ah, hi. Are you Cindy Ash?” He fumbled the items he held as he stood, tucking them under one arm.
The question put all my senses on alert. It was late, and the apartment building hallway was quiet. Bruno, sensing my unease, leaned protectively against my leg. He raised his hackles and issued a low warning growl.
“How did you get in my building?”
“I live here. Well, not here.” He hooked a thumb toward my door. “Up there.” He pointed at the ceiling.
“And?” I raised an eyebrow. The man was babbling; I couldn’t decide if it made him adorable or shady as hell.
“I’m delivering an apology and your box.
Sorry, no shipping box, just the, ah, shoebox with the shoes, of course.
And some chocolate. I’m Henry Phipps.” He extended his hand, but another growl from Bruno made him think twice.
He shoved his hand into the pocket of his gray sweatpants and rocked back on his heels.
“I’m the HOA treasurer—not a stalker with a shoe fetish, I swear. ”
Once he mentioned being on the board, I figured out why he looked familiar. I’d drooled over him on the Perrault’s virtual HOA meetings during COVID. I should have recognized those sexy eye wrinkles instantly, even if he’d shaved his lockdown beard.
I’d been so isolated during quarantine that I’d watched the meetings for social interaction. And Henry had been my make-believe homeowners' association boyfriend. During the pandemic to stay sane, you needed a rich fantasy life and lots of AA batteries.
I looked at the box, and some pieces slid into place. He had the shoes I’d ordered for my stepsister’s wedding. The box looked like it had been run over… twice. Buying new shoes was one of the few good things about The Duchess of Drama’s upcoming wedding. Scratch that—the only good thing.
“Shoes, chocolate, and an apology. Some women would say you’re Prince Charming.” I patted Bruno on the head, and the dog relaxed.
“If you have a minute?” He shrugged, holding up the dented shoebox and fancy chocolate bar.
I checked my watch. “I have seven minutes. Talk while I get my stuff together for work.”
I stepped past him and unlocked the front door.
Bruno and I entered first, and Henry followed, leaving the door to the hallway open.
I debated whether he’d done that to make me feel comfortable or in case he needed to escape Bruno.
Either way, I was excited to meet my online HOA meeting crush in real life.
Inside, I let Bruno off his leash, and he staggered to his dog bed. I toed off my running shoes, leaving them with Bruno’s leash and industrial-sized poop bags in a cubby by the front door.
“If you’re going to explain, now is the time.” I picked up Midnight’s backpack and checked the straps to keep from squeezing his biceps like I was picking a melon at Trader Joe’s.
“Sorry, it’s strange to be in my place but not in my place. You have the furniture different; it's throwing me off.”
I glanced around. My apartment was simple and modern because that made living with an oversized dog and a fluffy cat in seven hundred square feet easier. Less fuss to clean animal hair off microfiber and fewer knick-knacks to be damaged by their antics.
“I’ll take your word on that. So, my shoes.” I pointed at the box in his hand, an exaggerated wrinkle taking up residence on my forehead.
“The mailroom put your box in my stack. And…” He trailed off, looking at the box and biting his lip.