Life is a bitter asshole. The world we lived in during our time in the mountains is over. I have a life to get back to—projects, deadlines, and suffocating social engagements. It’s impossible for me to focus on anything else. My brain doesn’t operate bilaterally. It’s all or nothing, and my all is North Industries.
“Knock, knock.” My office door opens, and my brother Kingston saunters in, dressed like an 1800s brothel couch and acting like he owns the place. “Bro.” He drops into a sling-back chair, slouched, legs spread as if he’s settling in to watch football like some average Joe rather than a member of the born and bred elite. Real life is something the twenty-five-year-old has yet to experience and probably never will. “I met your chick.”
“She’s not my chick.”
A slow smirk pulls his lips, the same smirk I’ve seen him take home celebrities and supermodels with. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Not a chance.”
“Why not? She’s gorgeous—”
“I said no.”
He holds up hands that have never seen a day’s labor. “Alright, shit. Put away the claws.”
“What do you want?”
He sighs long and hard. “Since you’re depriving me of enjoying the splendors of a lovely woman—”
A low hum rumbles in my throat.
“I guess I’ll take getting out of that charity thing at the gallery.”
“You have to talk to the old man about that.”
He chuckles, but the sound lacks humor. “He doesn’t even know I exist. He’ll listen to you.” He picks at his manicured nails. “You’re the Golden Boy,” he mutters.
“He’ll want us all there. The image—”
“Of the company,” he says while using his finger like a conductor stick. “Blah blah bullshitty blah. But I was hoping to go with a few friends to Saint Moritz that week, hit the slopes.”
“You want to miss North Industries’ once-a-year fundraiser so you can vacation in Switzerland?”
He claps his hands once. “Yes. Thank you. Talk to the old man, let me know what he says.” He stands and adjusts his velvet coat. “It’s good to have you back.”
“Get out.”
“I love you, too.” He heads out the door. “Mrs. Miller, aren’t you looking as fine as a young Kate Winslet today. Please tell me you’re not still married.”
I hear the trilling giggle of my assistant.
“That’s too bad. Let me be the first to know if that changes.” He blows her an exaggerated kiss and walks away, waving a queenly hello to anyone he passes.
I pull my phone back up and watch the video footage of Jordan riding down the elevator and then switch footage to see her walking through the lobby. Her already big eyes are even bigger as she takes in the space with awe.
The area behind my ribs warms at her approval.
I stop the video and zoom in to where Hudson’s hand is on her back. That should be me guiding her out the door and into a car. I should’ve been the one to take her home.
I wonder if she’d even cared to say goodbye.
Who am I kidding?
She’s promised to someone else, and I’m promised to North Industries. Just like me, she’ll pick up where she left off, and I’ll be nothing but a memory.
It’s better this way.
I wonder if that’s the first time I’ve told a lie.
Jordan
“Mr. Bartley, I realize it sounds crazy,” I say, pleading with the landlord to let me into the apartment. “But I’m not lying. I really was stranded in the mountains for three weeks.”
After Hudson’s driver dropped me off, I stood on the steps of Lincoln’s ancient apartment building with my stomach in my throat. How will he react to seeing me again? How will I react to seeing him? We obviously need to talk about what I saw happening between him and Courtney and what happened between Alexander and me, but when?
Hi, I’m back. Oh, and you cheated on me. Pack your shit and get out.
Except, I can’t kick him out because only his name is on the lease. Which is precisely why I’m having a hard time getting Mr. Bartley to give me the spare key.
“Jordan, I have always liked you.” He obsessively smooths his gray mustache with his finger and thumb. “But without Lincoln’s permission, I can’t let you inside the apartment.”
“I assure you, if he were home, he’d let me in himself.” I knocked on the door for five minutes without an answer. “He must be at work. You could call him and… actually, I should probably call him.” Why didn’t I think to call him the second I landed? Or any of the time after, when I had access to a phone? I suppose I wasn’t ready to face whatever I’d find here waiting for me.
“May I?” I motion to Mr. Bartley’s phone on his desk.
“Sure. But I’ll need to talk to him if he gives the okay.”
I dial Lincoln’s number, hoping he picks up. He’s the manager at Chubby’s, but it’s late enough in the afternoon that he shouldn’t be too busy.
“Thanks for calling Chubby’s, home of the fattest wiener in New York. This is Lincoln.”
Hearing his voice for the first time in weeks jams up words in my throat.
“Hello…?”
“Lincoln.”
Absolute silence.
“It’s me. Jordan.”
“Jo? Holy fuck, Jo! Where are you?”
“I’m with Mr. Bartley trying to get him to let me into our apartment.”
“Jo,” his voice catches. “I… my God… I thought you were dead.”
My eyes fill with heat. “I almost was. I’ll tell you all about it, but can you help me get into our place?”
“I’m shaking. I can’t believe you’re alive. Sit tight. I’m on my way.” The phone disconnects.
I hang up, and Mr. Bartley lifts a brow. “He’s on his way.”
“You’re welcome to wait in here.” He grabs a rusty toolbox and limps toward the door. “I have a service call in 302.”
Rather than sit in his stuffy office that reeks of cigars and rusty metal, I sit outside on the front steps. The city looks different since I left. The leaves have turned bright orange and red and catch in the breeze that whispers winter is coming. I’ll never again see snow as I once did—dirty street slush and sleet-covered windows. Instead, snow will always remind me of long days and nights, a quiet cabin, and a warm fire. A frozen toilet seat and wind howling through the trees. Hot meals and musty animal pelts. Without even closing my eyes, I can see Grizzly’s big back sitting at that table. I hear his grumbled responses and feel the tension as it wound tighter and tighter between us. I can still feel his hands, the brute strength as he worked to save my life, and the seductive tenderness when he allowed himself to touch me.
A cab pulls up to the front of the building, and before it comes to a complete stop, Lincoln darts from the back and races toward me. He skids to a halt a foot in front of me and takes in my clothes, hair, and, finally, my face. “My God, you’re really here.”
I stand and marvel at how we’re face to face and yet there still seems to be so much distance between us. “I am.”