Chapter 11
Tuesday
As if the building itself isn’t mind-blowing with its high-end modern design, I can practically smell the scent of money filling the elevator. It also might have been the woman who looks like a model giving me a dirty look like I just snuck in off the streets. Little does she know, I did.
I restrain the cackle I want to free and put on an air of disdain until she flips her hair as she exits on the sixteenth floor.
As soon as the doors close again, I flip my hair just to do it.
I may not be as sophisticated as her, but I like what I see when I look at my reflection in the mirrored doors.
I may not have memories, but as I get to know myself again, I like who I am.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open on the eighteenth floor. There are two ways to go. I take a chance and go left. With only three doors, his is easy to find at the end.
I stick the key in and turn to open the door. I’m hit with a view that steals my breath and am quick to grab the frame for support. I exhale and smile. “Oh my, Mr. Westcott. You’ve got quite the apartment.”
Glancing down at the briefcase, I let the door close behind me and stroll toward the picturesque view. I should grab the case and go . . . I really should, but I look around like the snoop I am, still smiling like a dork.
His apartment is exactly like Loch—classic and styled with everything in its place. I wish I could stay longer, but I know he needs his briefcase. I peek out the windows, getting a stunning city view and a glimpse of water in the other direction.
Other than a few photos hung on one side of the living room, he has art on the other walls. It’s so tempting to see who fills the frames, but I’ve already stayed too long. I hurry back, grab the case, and lock up.
I squeeze into the elevator with a guy with a dogwalker tag on his shirt and a trio of corgis. Bending down, I rub their little licky faces. “They’re cute.”
“They’re a handful too,” he says, laughing.
The dogs barge into the lobby as soon as the doors open, dragging their walker behind them. “Have a good day,” I say with a wave.
Brady stands by the door and opens it as soon as he sees me. “Nice place,” I say, hopping in the back.
When he gets into the driver’s seat, he says, “It’s not too shabby. Did you see the water?”
“Not long enough. I didn’t want to keep him waiting.” I cuddle the briefcase like it will explode if it jostles. When I realize what I’m doing, I set it beside me and keep myself from running my fingers over the black leather.
Brady says, “Loch has had me over for meals and meetings. It’s a nice view, but I don’t think he enjoys it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He works all the time, so he’s not home enough to appreciate that apartment.”
I’m nodding like I know this firsthand. I’ve known him a few days, and although I have a strong sense of his life from the hints he’s dropped, I’m starting to think that Loch doesn’t have much of a life at all.
Of course that’s easy for me to say since I don’t know how I filled my days or made money.
Wonder what I did for a living?
“We’re here. Twenty-third floor.”
I peek out the window and look high into the sky to see an impressively mirrored skyscraper disappear into the clouds. “Thanks.”
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I need to steady myself. Maybe I’ve been running around too much this morning, but I feel a bit woozy. I walk inside, and after checking in with the front desk, they find my name, give me a pass, and direct me to the elevators.
I’m front and center in an elevator packed full of men in suits. I might have seen a woman in the back, but she’s not tall enough to see now with the doors closed. When I step off and see the Westcott Law Firm sign, I walk toward the reception.
“Hello?” A man, maybe early twenties and covered in freckles that give him a youthful look, greets me.
“I’m here to see Mr. Westcott.” I never thought to ask if this is his company or a family-run business. What if he’s not the only Westcott around? “Loch.”
The man grins. “Yes. He’s expecting you.” When he glances down to read the log in front of him, his brow furrows. His eyes lift slowly. “Ms. Westcott?”
“It’s a long story,” I reply with a chuckle.
His eyebrows shoot up. “I bet. Enter right there, take a left, and follow it around until you reach the corner office. His name plaque hangs outside the door, so you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
I push through the door to reach a good-sized room with cubicles.
I follow the path along the windows and keep walking past the offices on the left until I come to Loch’s office.
A desk sits outside it with a large area full of cabinets and a purse on the floor near the trash bin.
Looking both ways, I don’t see anyone, so I check the doorknob. It’s unlocked.
“Hello? Loch?” I walk in, but he’s nowhere to be found either. The spacious office has a sitting area, a large desk, and a captain’s chair-type wingback. I feel a little weird being in here without him. What if someone finds me here?
I close the door, then set the briefcase on his desk.
He did say he had meetings all day. I’m sure he’s stuck in a conference room in another part of the office.
Dragging my finger across the top of the wood and metal desk, I walk to the windows and peer out.
Another incredible view. Probably one he doesn’t get to enjoy, either.
My head spins.
I step back and sit in the closest chair with my hand cupping my head. Should I be concerned? Is this normal for having a concussion?
I feel nauseous.
Desperate, I look around, not feeling able to stand just yet. Spying a door that blends in with the wall, I know there’s a strong chance it’s a closet, but what if it’s a private bathroom? Wouldn’t a big-time attorney in Manhattan have one of those?
I carefully lift from the chair and make my way over to the wall. Pushing on it, I hear a click, and it releases. Score!
When I open it, steam billows toward the opening and engulfs me. I hear faint humming, and when my vision clears, I see Loch in the shower. Completely naked.
I cover my mouth, afraid to make a sound or move an inch, yet it doesn’t once occur to me to look away. He’s tilted his head back, eyes closed, as the water rains on his chest and travels down his body. Like my gaze.
The Greek gods hold nothing on this man—sculpted from steel muscles that flex when he turns, letting the water pummel his shoulders to that glorious indention in the sides of his ass to that cut V that digs deep into his sides and veers down in the front to his— “Tuesday?”
Our eyes meet through the glass just as a wave of nausea rolls through me. Oh no!
I run for the toilet, dropping to my knees, and lift the lid just in time.
Behind me, the water cuts off, and the faint sound of his voice reaches me through the convulsions. Tears fill my eyes while my body revolts and my head pounds.
He scoops my hair up off my neck with one hand while his other strokes my back. “Try to breathe.” His voice soothes as he continues, “Breathe through it.”
I focus on the direction, closing my eyes and slowing my breath until my panic subsides and my stomach settles. Mortification might get the best of me when I have to look into his eyes again, but I can only tackle one thing at a time. Right now, the vomiting takes precedence.
He says, “Breathe in and slowly release.”
I grab toilet paper and wipe my mouth. The heat of embarrassment floods my face, causing my head to pound again. But I feel steady enough to look behind me.
Oh God!
My breathing picks up again when I see him in nothing but a towel wrapped around his lower half. I turn away just as quickly and use my hand as a shield.
He says, “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
I toss the paper in the toilet and flush. Turning back, still feeling my face on fire, I sigh. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was a bathroom.”
“What were you looking for?”
“A bathroom, just not one you were showering in,” I reply, giggling a little. I finally meet his gaze again. “I felt ill waiting in your office.”
“So it’s not the sight of me that made you sick?”
“Oh God no. You’re incredible.” As if throwing up wasn’t bad enough, now I’m vomiting my words as well? Raising my hand, I say, “Ignore me. I’m not thinking clearly.”
“So you don’t think I’m incredible?”
I whip back to catch his eyes set on me already. “No, that’s not what I mean at all—”
“I know. I’m teasing, Tuesday.” He’s teasing? Loch Westcott bantering with me? That has to be a feat I’ve accomplished. Too bad I don’t feel so great, or I’d be celebrating.
I push off him—his wet, hard, and hot body—instead, this just feels like a punishment for me. “Listen, you, don’t give me a hard time.”
“You ruin all the fun.”
Standing up, he tightens the towel to my disappointment and then offers me a hand. When I slip mine into his, he pulls me up carefully until water droplets soak into my blouse. “You’re getting me wet.”
“About time.”
“Loch,” I say, my eyes widening on his face because I’m trying so desperately hard not to lower them to ogle his body again. “What the heck has gotten into you?”
“You’re right.” He runs his hand through his hair and waggles it, sending drops flying, including spackling my shirt. Soon I’ll look like I’ve entered a wet T-shirt contest.
“I should get dressed.” I start backing out, but he asks, “Would you like to brush your teeth?”
That’s an offer I can’t refuse. “I’d love to.”
He squats down and digs through the cabinet under the sink. I use the time to brazenly look at him again. Out of all the people in New York City, how did I end up with this man being my hero?
Luckiest damsel in distress ever.
He sets a toothbrush and paste on the counter, then moves to the door, and says, “I’m going to get dressed in my office if you can give me a few minutes.”
“Of course.”
As soon as he shuts the door, I look around.
There’s no closet in here, so I guess I just got lucky again in choosing door number one.
I brush my teeth and rinse. I'm not sure how I did it, but I kept my shirt clean.
The wet spots have already faded. Though the steam in here has made my hair a bit frizzier.
I hang out for a few extra minutes, then knock on the door. It’s pushed open, and he greets me with a smile that makes me feel like I just made his day. The golds of his eyes brighten, and the shadow of stubble dusting his jaw tempts me to jump him. What? Not jump. Kiss?
God, I’m hopeless. “I brought your briefcase.” I walk into the office, swinging my hands about.
“I see that. Thank you.”
I stop in the middle of the room. “You have meetings.”
“I do.”
The door opens, and a woman says, “The Bakers—” Her eyes land on me, and the questions that fill her expression are on display. “I didn’t know you had a guest.”
After closing the bathroom door, Loch moves behind his desk. “Yes, well. Ms. Wes—Tuesday brought me my briefcase.” He doesn’t sit. “Tuesday, this is Leisa. Leisa, this is my. . .” He hits another stumbling block. The pause seems to make us all uncomfortable by how we all shift.
She says, “It’s nice to meet you, Tuesday.” Her gaze returns to Loch. “Mr. Baker and his attorneys have been shown to conference room two.”
“Thank you,” he replies, looking down.
As soon as the door closes, he says, “I’m sorry. I’m usually quicker on my feet. I didn’t want to—”
“No explanation needed. I don’t know what we are to each other either.”
The lightness his lips held straightens into a flat line. “I was going to say I didn’t want to overstep a line by calling you my date or disregard how much I enjoyed last night by calling you a friend.”
“Oh, um . . . yes, I understand. I guess we left her to fill in the blanks.” I laugh behind my hand. “I’m sure that will go over well.”
His grin returns. “I’m sure I’ll hear all about it later.”
I enjoy his company too much to leave, but I know I should. “Mr. Baker and his attorneys . . .”
“Yes, they’re waiting.”
I walk to the door. With the knob in hand, I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “Would you like to go out tonight?” I rock my head back and forth, feeling much better, and wave my hand. “And when I say that, it means you also have to pay for everything.”
A chuckle rips through him. “In that case, how can I say no?”
I pull the door open, but before I go, I add, “You have my number.”
Smirking, he watches me with those eyes that could seduce the panties right off me, and then replies, “I sure do.”