Chapter 8
LILY
Back at the apartment I’m still reeling from shopping with Mr Anderson when there’s a knock on the door.
I tug on my new top over the cream trousers that I was trying on, and hurry. It’s silly, but I was going back over the clothes my boss bought for me, revelling in all the luxury. Turns out, Mr Anderson is very, very bossy.
Guess that goes with the territory. A compulsive search this morning revealed that my boss isn’t just the owner of this hotel. Nope. He’s a London mafia boss with a reputation for being crass new money, bloody, and more ambitious and gorgeous than a Greek god.
But he was endlessly patient with me as I tried on unfamiliar suit dresses and shirts, and neat little high heels. Every time I hesitated, he flicked one finger to the shop assistant, nodding that we’d take it.
I didn’t show him the underwear. Obviously, that would be inappropriate. But I did think of his big hands and how they’d appear grasping the white lace as I looked at my reflection.
I pull open the door and gasp.
Mr Anderson is leaning against the door jam, one hand high.
He’s stripped off his suit jacket and tie, and is dressed in a forest-green shirt that highlights the purple in his eyes.
But now the sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms covered with dark hair.
I can see the lines of tattoos that disappear under that expensive-looking fabric. My tummy swirls as I take him in.
Then I remember why I’m standing at the door.
“Was the knock… You?”
The corner of his mouth hitches.
“The delivery boy assumed it was for me. Since I live here.” He jerks his head towards the door behind him, the other side of the foyer.
“You’re my next-door neighbour?” I live next door to my boss? That’s batshit. Things like that don’t happen to me, and new members of staff don’t get luxury penthouse apartments next to their billionaire boss. “There must be some mistake about my living arrangements. I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no mistake.” He quirks one eyebrow. “It’s yours. And so is this.”
He holds out a letter addressed to me, in a crisp white envelope.
It’s only then I notice the pile of parcels. There are a lot.
“I don’t get it,” I say, looking down at the envelope.
“Just an idea, why not read and we’ll both have our curiosity satisfied.”
Right. Right, of course. Idiot.
I rip open the envelope, suddenly hyper-aware of Mr Anderson’s bulky presence in the doorway, basically over me.
“It’s from an online store…” I read incredulously. “I had a security breach this morning, they’re very sorry, and please accept…” I stare at the boxes.
“Security breach?” Mr Anderson rumbles. “What happened?”
“Oh, I just… I didn’t think it was anything. I logged into my email and there was an alert to say I’d had a login. It was weird, but…” I’d assumed it was a quirk or an error. “But they’ve sent me a ‘small compensation’. I’m not sure what this is, but it’s not small.”
“Why not find out?” Mr Anderson turns and picks a box off the top of the pile to pass to me.
“You do it…” I link my hands behind my back. I’m suddenly afraid all my bad luck is going to return. This is probably a horse’s head.
Mr Anderson shrugs and before I can explain, rips open the box, revealing a hardback of a book from my Wishlist.
My eyes go wide. It’s a special edition and I squeak with embarrassment as Mr Anderson opens it up to reveal a not-safe-for-work step back image of a couple mid… act.
“For you.” He closes the book and holds it out with a smirk.
My cheeks flush so hot you could use me as a portable room heater. Except, I’m shock still. So, not that portable, as it turns out. I’m burned to the spot. I die about five-hundred and ninety-seven different ways as I take the book and look over at the boxes.
“Shall I help you carry them in?” he asks mildly.
A denial is on my lips, but it turns into, “Please.” Because there must be a hundred boxes, at least.
That’s my entire Wishlist.
My boss and I stack the boxes in the middle of the plush living room carpet and my mind spins. All these coincidences. It’s weird. After twenty-one years of crappy luck, including being orphaned and homeless, I’ve suddenly become a lucky girl meme.
The money. The hotel room. This job. I think, I wish someone would help me with this stupid bank stuff and give me a hug, and my boss appears. I mean, sure, I’m dying even more deaths—getting good at this now—every time I remember that he saw me crying, face blotchy.
But… Well I did get to find out what it felt like to be in his arms. Amazing.
I just don’t dare ask why he was there. And why did my luck change? That shadowy figure I saw yesterday before I found that bank note… It couldn’t be?
No.
But it’s too strange, and I sneak a look at my boss. It does all seem to be associated with Mr Anderson. He’s the kingpin of Croydon, after all, and it’s since I was in Croydon that I’ve been lucky. Literally everything I’ve wanted is falling into my lap, and it feels like there must be a catch.
Maybe it’s just poetic justice, because while I’ve been given all these amazing things I’ve longed for, I suddenly find that what I most want is utterly forbidden: my big, tattooed, older, darkly handsome kingpin boss.
I shake myself as he brings in the last couple of parcels. I’m being ridiculous. I’m excited about my whole Wishlist being delivered, and not pining after the man I can’t have, to the point of making up insane theories about how he’s following and caring for me.
Definitely.
“Do you have plans for dinner, neighbour?” he says casually as he moves to the door. “Since you’ve only just moved in, I figure you maybe don’t have groceries? And I made far too much for one.”
“I…” My mouth goes dry. Is my hot billionaire boss inviting me to have dinner with him?
“Do you like chicken pie?”
“I love it,” I admit. I was reading that item on the menu of a restaurant yesterday and thinking how I craved it.
“Good, then that’s settled.” He turns away, leaving me gaping like a fish.
“Are you sure?”
“Close the door behind you,” Mr Anderson calls over his shoulder. Quickly picking up my key and closing both doors behind me, I follow him. It occurs to me as the door snicks shut that I’m alone with a man twice my age, who is my boss.
I don’t care. It’s him who should be worried, because I’m greedy for more information about Mr Anderson. About Kane, though I dare not call him that.
His apartment is the mirror image of mine, but more homely.
There’s a bowl with his life stuff in it on a sideboard.
Small coins, receipts, some notes, a spare key.
Bookshelves line the corridor leading to the main living space, and the scent of rich broth and buttery pastry makes my mouth water.
Emerging into the kitchen and lounge area, the walls are covered with more art, and while I really love my apartment, this has the feeling of a place I could snuggle into.
“Here.” Mr Anderson pulls out a chair for me at a little table on the other side of the kitchen island. It’s set for two, with wine and a candle, and my tummy does a flip.
“Thank you.” I don’t know where to put my hands and I’m terrified I might spill the red wine on my new cream trousers, but Mr Anderson picks up his glass and raises it to mine.
“It’s only dinner, and what you deserve.”
There’s something funny about his phrasing, but he fetches the food from the oven, and I relax.
Having dinner with my boss is nothing like eating with my aunt and cousin. There’s no fetching or carrying for me. Every time I try, Mr Anderson’s brows pinch together, and he shakes his head.
When we’ve eaten and finished our glasses of wine, he walks me to the door of my apartment. I’m not sure what to do, but he clasps my shoulders and presses a kiss to my forehead.
It’s a chaste—if still inappropriate from my boss—kiss, nothing smutty in it. But my whole body responds in a way I never have before.
I’m buzzing even as he puts me away from him immediately, with a low, gravelly, “Goodnight.”
I guess it’s been a long time since anyone kissed me. And I’ve never had a proper kiss, so my internal standard for what’s sexy is probably misaligned. All it takes is Mr Anderson’s affectionate dad’s-best-friend kind of kiss and my brain thinks it is a turn on like a filthy romance novel.
It’s a good thing Mr Anderson bought me knickers though, as the next morning, I could swear I put the soaked white cotton ones I wore yesterday beside my other clothes on the chair in the bedroom. But they’re gone.