“I didn’t catch your name,” I say. I can’t complain about the people in this building being cold and unfriendly and then do the same thing to him after he’s been nothing but polite to me.
He turns to face me, capturing my gaze for a moment. “Jude Warner. And you are?”
“Love Aldridge,” I say. I’m still not used to going by my maiden name. I’ve been a LeGrand for almost the entirety of my twenties—the better part of my adult life thus far. But Love LeGrand doesn’t exist anymore. I signed her death warrant by way of divorce papers last month, hardly sorry to say goodbye to a poor soul, stuck in the shadows of a disgustingly rich husband who broke every promise he ever made. “Welcome to the building.”
With that, I show myself in.
I simply wanted to be cordial, neighborly. Jude seems like a decent man, friendly and approachable, which is rare around these parts, not to mention easy on the eyes … but meeting new people—men in particular—is the furthest thing from my mind and it’s going to be that way for the foreseeable future.
I finally got my heart back from the lying thief who stole it all those years ago, and I’ll be damned if I give it away to the first guy who so much as smiles in my direction. I might not be back to my proverbial fighting weight, but I’m not weak by any stretch of the imagination.
Besides, as far as I’m concerned, men are all the same and if one of them wants my heart, he’s going to have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.
Love is for the birds.
Love Aldridge is for herself.
Chapter Two
Jude
My new place reeks of expensive cologne, fresh flowers, and old leather—not that I’m complaining. It’s a far cry from the stale pizza-scented two bedroom I’ve been sharing with my sister and nieces in Brooklyn for the past year. Besides, I’ve lived in worse places: sweaty Army barracks, tents in Iraq, beer-stained sofas in friends’ living rooms.
Sliding my barely-broken in Gucci loafers off, I head to the stainless-steel double-wide fridge and grab a bottle of beer from the middle shelf. There must be twenty different varieties here—most of which I’ve never heard of. I reach for an Arrogant Bastard, slam the door shut, and twist off the cap.
Standing in the middle of a kitchen bigger than my entire place back in Brooklyn, I drag my palm along the shiny smooth marble counter. Everything’s so clean. So untouched. White and marble and wood, chandeliers that look like they belong at the MoMA. Every square inch of this place is doused in upgrades fit for a sheikh, and while this is only my third day here, I still can’t help but gawk a little every time I walk through the door.
Earlier today, I’d done a bit of exploring … mostly drawers and nightstands … only to find condoms strategically shoved in every corner of this place. I couldn’t help but remember that rich bastard’s words to me as I left his office that day: “You’ve got my full permission to drive it like you stole it.”
It meaning … his ex-wife.
But he isn’t paying me to judge him, is he?
I take a swig of beer and another good, hard look around.
I’ve been in places like this plenty of times before, but I was always in a plumber’s uniform and I was never there more than a few hours before heading to the next call out.
Making my way to the living room, I stand before a floor-to-ceiling window with an unobstructed view of Central Park.
People pay millions of dollars to live like this and now some rich asshole is paying me a million dollars to pretend to live like this for reasons I still don’t quite understand. He said he couldn’t tell me why for “liability purposes”—his and mine. Maybe that should’ve been a red flag, and to a guy in different circumstances, that would’ve been all the reason he needed to walk out of Hunter LeGrand’s office right then and there, but as the old adage goes … he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse—literally—because between the lines of that offer was a threat.
Taking a seat in a buttery chair the color of top shelf cognac, I bring the beer bottle to my lips as I take in the view of the city at night. It’s a different experience from this side of the bridge, almost like seeing it for the first time.
There are going to be a lot of firsts for me these next few months. First time living like a true Upper Eastsider. First time wearing nothing but designer labels. First time pretending to prefer Chopin and Bach over Bon Iver and Iron and Wine. First time dedicating my entire existence to ensuring some divorcee socialite falls madly, deeply in love with me and then breaking her heart the second the ink is dry on the marriage certificate.
Every time I think about what I’m doing, I hate myself a little bit more than the time before, but if I’m going to do this, I can’t think that way. I have to harden my heart, ignore that voice in my head that tells me how fucked up this whole thing is, and keep pushing forward.
Last month, Hunter had given me a small binder full of notes on his ex-wife. Hobbies. Interests. Favorite shops and restaurants. Most-loved travel destinations. Favorite books and movies and wines. Anything I could possibly want to know about her was in there and I was told to study those pages, to know them frontward and backward, to memorize every little thing about Love so that I could morph myself into the kind of man she’d fall irrevocably in love with.
Meeting her tonight for the first time was surreal.
She wasn’t at all what I expected, at least not based on the things Hunter had told me. He said Love was materialistic, money-hungry, and stone cold. He said I wouldn’t like her at first, that I’d be put off the instant our eyes met. Hunter also described her as spoiled, entitled, and selfish.
But she was wearing faded Levis, throwing money into a fountain just ‘cause, and she actually introduced herself and welcomed me to the building.
The only thing that seems to match up so far is the fact that she’s a complete knockout even though the photos Hunter gave me hardly do her justice. In person, Love’s got this understated elegance about her, from her soft blonde hair to her hooded hazel eyes, to her pointed nose and high cheekbones. She could be a princess or the girl next door and it would suit her all the same.
And that runner’s body… God, I could eat my fist just thinking about it right now. Consummating this relationship will be a piece of fucking cake.
Leaning against the back of my chair, I cross my legs wide and finish my beer, accepting myself for the self-serving piece of shit that I’ve become, and when I’m done, I force myself to call it a night.
The sooner I go to bed, the sooner I can wake up and get this shit show started.
Chapter Three
Love
“This reminds me of our WVU days,” Tierney says as she takes a seat on my bed and scans my new bedroom. “Just hanging out, doing girl stuff.”
My best friend smirks, reaching for the newest edition of Elle on my nightstand and aimlessly paging through it.
“Yeah, it does.” Seated in a gray velvet chair by the window, I drag my legs in and wrap my arms around them. Tierney sitting on my bed reading one of my magazines does feel like a college flashback, but only until her phone rings and I’m reminded that we’re both pushing thirty, she’s running her own company while expecting her first baby with her new husband, and we’re up to our eyeballs in the “real world.”