Chapter 2
Chapter two
Audrey
Jackson wanted to live somewhere impressive, a building with history and prestige, so the Brecken Building became our home; complete with our renovated apartment that could be a spread in Southern Living magazine.
Jackson’s mother, Vivianne, helped decorate it.
She took me with her on a weeklong escapade right after we moved in, bringing me to exclusive member only showrooms where her interior designer met us.
We picked out everything from the pillows to the floral arrangements.
Everyone who enters our home comments on how beautiful it is and they aren’t wrong.
But as I stand in the hallway, peering back into the foyer, I see everything in a new light.
I could leave here right now, and someone else could move in, and besides my clothing, nothing would indicate that this place is mine.
Nothing here reflects who I am. Everything was chosen for the sheer purpose to impress.
From the chef's kitchen to the bookcase full of trinkets, not books, it’s like I could disappear in a poof, and it would be fine.
But even if I had the chance, I wouldn’t know how to make this space truly mine.
This home symbolizes the life I was promised, one that is perfect and safe; beautiful and planned. Everything in its place.
This place, my life, was built around me, without me in mind.
With my eyes locked on the metal door at the end of the hallway, I walk with haste, pushing it open and clomping up the stairs.
Fresh air hits my face as I step onto the apartment building’s rooftop deck.
It’s been renovated recently, giving the feel of an upscale resort with lounge chairs, gas firepits, tables, and a lush array of plants that make you temporarily forget you’re in the city.
As always in North Carolina, the air is humid, but I don’t mind the heat that encases me as I shuffle towards a lounge chair.
But before I sit, I flip on the lights, and a zigzag of Edison bulbs illuminates the space above me.
Swaying slightly as I sit down, I tuck my long, chocolate brown hair behind my ears and set the champagne bottle on the ground beside me.
With my head resting back, I gaze up at the sky, wondering how in the world I got here.
Drunk, alone…and falling for a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
It takes only seconds before I begin to fidget, though, every nerve buzzing from both the alcohol and anger raging through my veins.
A fat, hot tear rolls down my cheek as I swipe it clumsily away.
“Fuck you, Jackson,” I say aloud, louder than I meant, and am startled as someone clears their throat nearby. Sitting up abruptly, I glance in all directions, noticing a man I didn’t see before. His back is to me as he leans against the railing, a cloud of smoke billowing above him.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was up here.” I stumble over my words, heat creeping up my neck as I smooth my white dress.
The man turns around to face me, leaning his back against the railing, eyes piercing me. “No need to apologize. I was just about to head out anyway.” His voice is gravelly, a thick southern drawl rolling off his tongue. Not an accent you hear often in this city full of transients.
I try to shove the champagne bottle behind the lounge chair with my foot, but when I look up, he glances away quickly, a smirk on his lips.
A glowing cigarette dangles between his lips, and I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to tell him there’s no smoking allowed up here.
He doesn’t strike me as someone who would care about those kinds of rules, and right now, I'm not sure I do either.
He remains half in the shadows of the dark night, but I stay mesmerized as he releases a roll of smoke, snuffs out the cigarette, and tosses it in the trash can.
Maybe it’s the alcohol racing through my body, or maybe I just have nothing left to lose, but no part of me feels worried about being on this dark rooftop, alone with a strange man. In fact, I stand up and take a step towards him.
It’s not like the conversation in my head is a pleasant one, so I smile weakly, and steady my voice.
“Do you live in the building?” I ask, already assuming the answer is no. The Brecken Building isn’t huge, and I know every tenant in it, especially the ones close to my age, and he can’t be much older than thirty.
He smirks, shaking his head a little. "No, ma'am. I just finished up a job in apartment six. Mrs. Lawson," he says. I nod. It checks out. Laura Lawson is a wealthy, albeit grumpy woman who is constantly renovating her already impeccable apartment. She is also continually complaining about it.
"That makes more sense," I reply as his eyebrows shoot up, giving me a view of the palest blue eyes I've ever seen. Almost silver.
"What gives it away? The boots?" he asks, and I turn red, looking down at his loosely laced, work boots.
"Oh shit, no, I wasn’t implying anything…” I backpedal, slapping a palm to my forehead. “It's just there are only twelve apartments in this building, and I know mostly everyone. I've never seen you around, but you could've been someone's boyfriend, or son, or—"
He cuts my rambling off. "It's okay." He lets out a small chuckle, his voice soothing. My heart starts to slow its hammering. "You don’t need to explain yourself."
I purse my lips together. I really hope I didn’t offend him. God, I need water and a painkiller, and certainly a break from drinking for at least a month.
He doesn’t say anything else but doesn’t leave either.
He turns his back, looking over the railing out at the city, and I take this chance to get a better look at him.
A worn-in white shirt, frayed jeans and work boots.
Paired with broad shoulders, arms rippled with thick muscle, and a lush head of hair. I can’t peel my eyes away.
The lights overhead are a bit blurry, reminding me how drunk I am. Good thing my years of etiquette lessons are ingrained in every fiber of my soul. I’ve had plenty of polite conversations over bottles of wine at dinners and events I didn’t want to be at.
Mystery man turns back around as I stand there like a drunk fool and rakes his eyes slyly over me, landing on my feet.
"I would add, though, my choice of shoes is more practical than the bunnies you have on your feet.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a teasing smile on his face. My jaw drops as I scoff, peering down.
“Okay, okay, in my defense, I had gorgeous Louboutins on with this dress, but I figured stilettos weren’t really practical for late-night rooftop decompression sessions.”
“I don’t understand a single word you just said, but it sounds like you need one of these more than I do.
” He pulls the carton of cigarettes from his pocket, extending it towards me.
Without hesitation, I pulled one out. Jackson was allowed as many cigars as he wanted, but if I so much as touched a cigarette, he would throw a fit. All the more reason to do it.
I place it between my lips and he closes the gap between us, bringing a lighter up, his eyes locking with mine as I suck in. His head could rest on top of mine, and he smells like fresh cut wood. As I inhale my legs grow wobbly, and I have to rip my eyes away from his, heat rising in my chest.
I let the toxic smoke fill me, chasing away feelings of guilt. Yes, he’s attractive, but I'm not kissing him; it’s just a cigarette. He flicks the lighter closed, dropping it in his pocket and steps back, giving me space. I can hear my best friend assessing him in my head.
Strong jawline, check. Pretty eyes, check. Dirty blonde hair women would kill for, check. His hair was a little messy and curled up at the nape of his neck.
“I’m not a smoker,” I say, my voice thick as I blow out a puff away from him.
“Right,” he mumbles with a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“It’s been a long night, that’s all. I know this is bad for you.” I wiggle the glowing cigarette towards him. He bows his head, stifling a laugh.
“I’m guessing your long night has something to do with Jackson?” he asks, and I snap my neck to look at him, lips ajar.
“Wha—”
“Fuck you, Jackson,” he mimics my line from before, and I can’t help but let out a yelp of a chuckle, even if nothing about this is even slightly funny.
“Oh right, you heard that.”
“Hope he’s not the one responsible for the ring on that finger of yours.” He nods towards my hand, and I glance at the heavy stone on my finger.
“Thank you for reminding me to take this off as soon as possible.” I bring the smoke back to my mouth, disgusted with myself and needing it all the same.
“I’m sorry for oversharing. I think I had a bit too much champagne.”
That’s an understatement.
“You call that oversharing? Darlin’, where I'm from, everyone knows everything about everyone. Hell, I don’t even know your name, so don’t apologize to me.
Done nothing wrong that I can see.” He runs a hand through that dirty blonde hair, his forearm flexing, showing off a splatter of tattoos inside his arms as my eyes unwillingly land on his face.
My own flushes and I lean on the railing beside him.
“My name is Audrey.” He doesn’t reply, but I continue. “And I'm in this ridiculous outfit because I was planning my engagement party two hours ago.”
“Congratulations?” he asks, facing me.
“Thank you, but it’s actually off.” I inhale a sharp breath. “I found out my fiancé, Jackson, was cheating on me. He has been for months actually...it started before he even asked me to marry him.”
I look up as sudden tears cloud my vision, and shame envelops me like a cloak. The man’s —who still hasn’t told me his name—eyebrows knit tightly together, and he hesitantly moves a bit closer to me.
“Well, fuck you Jackson, indeed,” he says gruffly, and I laugh, but it quickly turns to sniffling, and I tuck my face away from him, embarrassment building in my belly.
“Thank you...I'm…I’m sorry. Crying in front of a stranger was not on my list of to-dos tonight.”
“Audrey,” he starts, and my stomach clenches in response. He says my name like he’s known me for years. “Remember what I said about apologizing? Stop it. You have every right to be pissed and cry or whatever the hell you want to feel. That’s fucked up. Excuse my language.”
I nod, the voice in my head louder than this kind stranger. “Maybe I’m naive. Maybe this is just how men are. No offense,” I add, glancing his way.
“Sadly, you’re not wrong. Not all of us, but a lot of guys don’t know a good thing when they have it. But that doesn’t excuse what he did.”
I bite my lip, unsure what to even say to this stranger who knows my most vulnerable secret.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but if I just ended my engagement, I’m not sure I’d be so…composed?”
“Ha!” I throw my head back, laughing through the tears. “I chucked my phone into the wall, creating a hole, and drank an entire bottle of champagne. Trust me, I’m barely holding it together,” I shot back, but he smirked at me, releasing his grip on the railing.
“You shared something with me, so I’ll even the playing field, okay?” He muses and I nod, yet again having nothing to lose. And oddly enough, standing here with this stranger is better than being alone with my thoughts.
“When my Mimi found out my Papa was deep into gambling again, after he’d sworn he’d stopped, she solved it by grabbing her shotgun and giving him two choices. Leave before she could shoot him or change his ways. He lived to be ninety years old. They stayed married, and he never gambled again.”
I snort in disbelief, but his face stays the same.
“Oh, you’re dead serious, aren't you?”
“Of course, I am.”
“So, are you suggesting I wait for my cheating ex-fiancé to get home and threaten him with a weapon?” I ask, amused, and he laughs, scrubbing a palm across his five o’clock shadow.
“No, I’m just saying there’s a lot of ways to deal with shit in life. And you gotta do it in the way that’s right for you.”
I shake my head as his pocket chimes, and he slides his phone into his palm. “Well, duty calls.”
I cast my eyes away, not asking for an explanation he certainly doesn’t owe me. A guy like this probably has a family, or a girlfriend waiting for him at home. He doesn’t need to spend any more of his Saturday night on a rooftop with a crying rich girl.
“I should go, too.” I snuff out what was left of the cigarette. He nods, an unreadable look on his face as we both turn towards the door. Avoiding eye contact, I pick up my empty bottle and focus my gaze on the stairwell door as I attempt not to stumble while I walk. Nausea bites at my stomach.
He follows me down the steps, keeping a respectful distance as we enter the hallway of the sixth floor together.
“The elevators are right down there.” I point past my door, down the hallway. “But of course, you already know that since you work here,” I add, and he flashes me a charming smile.
“Thank you, take care.”
“You too. This is me,” I add, buying time for reasons I can’t articulate. I stop outside my door, my hand hesitating at the keypad.
My gaze rests on his back a heartbeat too long before I quickly type the code into my door. His footsteps sound down the hallway, getting further away, and without hesitation, I pause and holler after him.
“Thank you for letting me vent.”
He stops, peering back at me over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, I didn’t catch your name.” I wait, my breath hitched in my chest.
“It’s Rhett.” His lips pull up to one side as he nods his head at me.
Rhett.
“Well thank you, Rhett. Have a good evening. Or night.”
“Goodnight, Audrey,” he says, and as soon as he disappears into the elevator, my shoulders sink and I drag my feet through the threshold of my apartment, alone again.