Sugar, Page 2

  Not used to women requiring this much strategy, I got a small thrill from the idea of a hunt. First, I needed more than a hallway pass by to get to know her. I wanted a chance to touch her, look into her eyes without the threat of a door closing between us. I needed to lure her into my domain. Picturing her in my space caused my insides to hum with hopeful satisfaction. If I could get her there, I might keep her until morning.

  By the time I finished eating and had the dishes washed, I’d come up with a plan. I’d host a party. Nothing fancy and I could pass it off as a work thing, providing the perfect opening for personal details.

  Avery appeared to enjoy successful men. I’d accomplished a comfortable level of success for my age, enough not to feel threatened by her success or the success of the men she passed the time with. Going by her clothing and living situation, she’d accomplished quite a bit at an early age.

  Unsure what would get her naked faster, I decided to balance the party between upscale chic and trendy and prepster casual. I needed a wingman, someone with a little insight into women.

  My thumb dragged over the screen of my phone, opening my favorites. There, beneath my parents and sister sat the number of my go-to gal. She answered halfway through the first ring.

  “If this is about the papers you forgot on your desk, I already had them overnighted,” Lucy answered.

  Shit. I totally forgot about that. “That’s why I pay you the big bucks.”

  She laughed, a cross between charming appreciation and the subtle hint she was overdue for a raise. I’d give it to her. As an invaluable personal assistant, Lucy always moved five steps ahead and anticipated my every move.

  “I have a project I need you to get started on—something fun.”

  “My pen is poised. Whatcha’ got?”

  “I want to have a staff party here at the condo. Something nice, but not too formal. Give them something to talk about on Monday.”

  As I tossed out ideas, she bounced them back with better ones, and within ten minutes, the details were worked out. Of course, I didn’t tell Lucy my motives. One, I didn’t want her to think less of me, and two, I didn’t want to work under a microscope once I lured my hot neighbor through the door.

  Once Lucy understood the objective, and we got the ball rolling, I returned to fantasizing about Avery. I imagined her toned body and blonde hair. She’d be wrapped in my sheets come Sunday morning. I didn’t care if that made for an awkward workweek afterward. I needed to have her, and I wasn’t going to stop obsessing until I did.

  3

  Avery

  I stared through the tinted window of Christopher’s Porsche, admiring the brick homes towering down Society Hill. I live here. The thought never got old.

  The exquisitely maintained townhomes along Delancey Street were so picturesque, day or night, with their high gloss painted shutters and waving American flags. Sometimes I felt as if I’d been transplanted from a government crisis into a Norman Rockwell centerfold.

  “Can I walk you up?”

  My gaze drifted from the handsome road dotted by antique streetlamps to rest on my date’s hopeful smile. He behaved like a gentleman, but I suspected others often missed his softer sides. Disinterested in what hid under that designer suit, and fully aware of the wedding ring on his finger, I played the sweet innocent who always abided the rules.

  A polite smile softened my eyes. I couldn’t wait to wash off the ten pounds of mascara weighing down my lashes.

  “Thank you, but I don’t want to trouble you. Parking’s a nightmare, and it’s only a short walk to my door.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m sure I can find a spot nearby.”

  Keeping my expression friendly, I noted the non-verbal invitation he fished for, careful not to fall for the bait. He would park, walk me to my door, try for a kiss, and use his best moves to secure an invitation inside. If I were privy to his imagination, there would be some pretty intense petting that would undoubtedly lead to sex. But that wasn’t our arrangement, and I remained unshakably grounded in my own mind, which only entertained fantasies motivated by my own personal benefit.

  “Christopher,” I said gently, brushing my fingertips over the back of his hand. “You know that’s not how this works.”

  “Maybe we should renegotiate our arrangement.”

  Maybe we should, but I wasn’t a fool, and I never agreed to anything after cocktails or midnight. “We could, but I think that’s a conversation best had in the light of day.”

  By then he’d reconsider because everything came with a price and I’d yet to appraise the true cost of my dignity. Chances were, no matter how rich the client, none of them could afford the whole package. My heart wasn’t for sale.

  Appearing to accept I wasn’t going to budge, he eased back in the driver’s seat, out of my personal space. “I’ll call you.”

  “I hope you do. Tonight was wonderful. Thank you.” Only because I rejected him did I press a kiss to his jaw, a consolation he wasn’t used to receiving from me. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight. I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

  So thoughtful.

  I exited the car and pulled my wrap over my shoulders. The air held a chill for mid-autumn, and I longed to strip out of this dress, and these five-inch heels then snuggle into my fuzzy slippers and sweats.

  As the doorman greeted me, I glanced back to give Christopher a wave, sighing as he pulled away. Some nights were more exhausting than others, but the perks of my job always far outweighed the drawbacks.

  On the elevator to the third floor, my finger slipped into my wristlet to glide along a crisp envelope. Whoever said cash was cold comfort didn’t understand the warmth of a renovated eighteenth-century gas fireplace or eight hundred thread count sheets.

  I wasn’t a snob. Snobs didn’t appreciate the finer things. I appreciated every luxury I came by, each one a jagged reminder of where I’d been.

  This envelope, like several others that came before, would go home to Blackwater—another consolation to make up for my recent avoidance. My mother would be satisfied with the money and forgive me for not calling as much as I probably should.

  Stepping onto the ivory tile of the third floor, I gasped as my foot slipped and my ankle twisted painfully. A quick pinch shot through my heel and my little purse flung from my hand. I went down with the grace of an antelope attacked on the nature channel.

  The cold tile floor smacked against my knees and palms as I caught my weight and my arms and legs sprawled inelegantly. Of course, the door across from mine opened.

  “Jesus, are you all right?”

  Large, masculine, bare feet stepped into my line of vision, and I quickly swiveled to sit. I slipped my heels off, struggling to stand without exposing any concealed body parts.

  “My shoe broke.” I stood, applying too much pressure to my ankle and hissed with pain as I lost my balance.

  “Careful.” A large hand gripped my elbow and steadied me, jolting my body with an almost electric shock as my eyes lifted and stared into his.

  Everything I was, everything I thought, everything I believed I knew, disappeared, as his gaze swallowed me whole. I felt myself drowning in an ocean of arctic blue, those full lashes the most majestic shade of gold, prettier than the belly of a blushing cloud. I wasn’t breathing, but I didn’t have to. Drowning had never felt so good.

  I jerked my stare away and breathlessly took account of all my belongings. My purse lay crumpled on the floor behind him.

  “Th—thank you.”

  Embarrassment curdled in my stomach as I joltingly pulled my arm out of his steadying grip. The flawless picture I’d painted a few nights ago had been smeared with the image of a graceless klutz. I needed to get into my apartment and out of this hallway.

  “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Only my pride.”

  My palms stung, and my knees would likely wear a nasty bruise by morning, but it could have been much worse. I gave my ankle a slow wiggle before puttin
g weight back on the leg. I stepped gingerly, testing my tender ankle.

  “No wonder you fell.” He lifted my hand holding the unbroken shoe, and another bolt of electricity sizzled up my arm. “Look at these things. They’re stilts!”

  I pulled my shoe back and scowled at him. That was a mistake.

  His crystal blue eyes pinched at the corners. Such creases weren’t caused by age, but by charisma, charm, and a good sense of humor. There literally seemed to be some sort of magnetic pull coming from those eyes, so I forced my gaze lower. His lips were full, surrounded by the perfect amount of dark blond stubble. He had a foot of height on me. Of course, I wasn’t wearing shoes, but neither was he.

  My head tipped away, and I couldn’t hide the flush warming my cheeks, not with my pale hair twisted into a tight bun. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  My gaze returned to my wristlet and held, silently begging him to go back inside so I could gather my belongings and nurse my wounds in private. Mainly, I wanted to ice down my wounded ego.

  His head turned, his stare following mine. And then I looked at his hair. The tousled, flaxen waves struck me as Nordic, and maybe he was. It made sense, given his height. He bent to collect my purse, his body folding low and springing back up with the grace of a jungle cat.

  He personified a golden lion, appearing soft and beautiful but lethal all the same, a predator in his own domain. I swallowed, only to find my throat bone dry. I, apparently, had been cast as the clumsy, cornered antelope. Running would only entice the hunt, and I wasn’t a fan of feeling like prey.

  “You dropped this.”

  My focus lingered on the ridiculously long fingers clutching my tiny purse, and a frisson of excitement spiked in my blood, changing my inner temperature from uncomfortably warm to scorching hot. I cringed at the docile way my body responded in his presence. I was the alpha.

  I didn’t want to take the purse for fear I might touch him again, but apparently, he didn’t register my personal boundaries.

  Clasping my free hand, he lifted it, pressing the wristlet into my palm and curling my fingers around the material. The slightly rough but warm pad of his thumb pressed into my skin. The contact disappeared before I could truly decide if I liked or hated it.

  “I’m Noah.” The deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver up my spine.

  Clumsily, I took a step back. “Thank you, Noah. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “You didn’t. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself since you moved in, but you always seem to be on your way out.”

  I nodded because my vocal cords had dried up like an old mollusk. I could almost taste the sand clogging my throat.

  Blinking up at him, I got lost in his expectant stare.

  Damn it! Stop looking at him!

  It happened so suddenly, like Alice falling through the looking glass, my bearings seemed there one moment, gone the next. I couldn’t stop falling into his all-consuming stare.

  When we were kids, my brothers and I would play Tag at the old quarries. When the person who was It chased me, my heart would race a million miles a second as I hauled ass back to base. My heart raced like that now. I yearned for sanctuary. I needed to get to base.

  A sharp mental smack landed in the back of my head as the last of my common sense showed up to save the day.

  He’s not for you! Stop looking at him like that before you ruin everything! Do you want to move? You don’t shit where you eat!

  Without another word, I turned and hobbled to my door, my bare feet slapping along the cool tile, and my face pinching with every limping step. With a trembling hand, I removed my key and completely missed the lock, stabbing just past the deadbolt and taking a gouge out of the finish. I tried again, my heart pounding in my ears and fingertips.

  I wasn’t a fool. This wasn’t some mere burst of sexual attraction throwing me off. It couldn’t be. My sole desire remained to appear as if I belonged, to prove I had the right to be there, the eloquence to not stick out like a sore thumb, and the privileged upbringing to never need to explain myself. Busting my ass like a first-rate bimbo wasn’t exactly sending that message.

  “We still haven’t been fully introduced.”

  Head down, I licked my lips as the door gave way. Without saliva, my mouth stayed ash dry. Swallowing uncomfortably, I forced myself to face him head on.

  “I’m Avery. Avery Johansson.” Despite my riled hormones, I kept my stare neutral—not too strong and not too passive.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Avery Johansson. I hope to see you around.”

  With a tight nod, I backed into my apartment and shoved the door shut. My hand gripped the knob as my fingers slackened around my shoes, sending them clattering to the hardwood floor. I panted quietly.

  Shutting my eyes, I rested my clammy palm on my chest where my heart beat like a tribal drum. My head fell back, and I sighed.

  Some people were too damn perfect—especially him. I couldn’t embarrass myself like that again. And I certainly couldn’t afford to get near him again. He affected me differently than any other man I’d met since moving to Philadelphia. I didn’t like it.

  Sagging against the wood, I groaned. Why did he seem so different?

  “God, he’s pretty.” A total distraction and I was an idiot for teasing him, never once thinking he’d remain my neighbor and the joke might be on me.

  I blew out a breath. “I might have to move even if I don’t fuck him.”

  4

  Avery

  As the manicurist applied a second coat to my nails, my phone flashed, notifying me of an email. Careful not to smudge the fresh polish, I swiped the pad of my finger across the screen and navigated to my inbox. Micah. Short and sweet in true Micah style.

  * * *

  Tonight. 6:00. Black tie formal. Can you make it? ~M.

  * * *

  I quickly responded, letting him know I’d be ready and waiting. The message sent and my phone pinged seconds later with his reply.

  * * *

  Good girl. Money’s in your account for attire and jewelry. I’m picturing you in something red. See you in a few hours. ~M.

  * * *

  Moving to the dryer, I glanced at the time. Five hours. I could make that work. “Is it possible to fit me in for a wax?”

  The manicurist checked the appointment book, and within ten minutes, I was gritting my teeth through a Brazilian. I hated being waxed, but I loved the ability to afford such indulgent spa treatments. And held myself to a certain high standard, that of a woman of means and strict beauty rituals. These were the differences between the girl I was and the woman I aimed to be. I opted to have my eyebrows threaded since I had a date in a few hours. There wasn’t time for puffiness.

  Buffed and polished, I scheduled a return appointment for hair and makeup at four. Two hours to find a dress, shoes, and all the accessories necessary for a black tie affair.

  A notification came directly to my phone that funds had been electronically deposited. Nice. If anything, Micah, my most generous client and most important Daddy, took great care of me. Twelve hundred dollars of make myself pretty money. More than enough.

  First stop, a consignment boutique in Society Hill that carried only name brand labels. I needed to look like twelve hundred bucks while spending as little as possible. I had other plans for the balance.

  They knew me at the boutique and knew I usually shopped on a time crunch. As I walked in, the clerk, Twyla, dropped what she’d been doing to help me.

  “He wants something red tonight.” They never asked who he was and why should they? It was none of their business.

  “Oh, we have this adorable new romper—”

  “It’s a black tie function.”

  Twyla deflated and twisted her lips, her gaze scanning the neatly organized racks. She suddenly perked up. “We just got a new shipment in. I think I saw something red in satin back there. Hopefully, it’s in your size. Let me check.”

  I moved to the shoe display while Twyla sear
ched for a dress. A great pair of nude Nappa heels for only forty dollars caught my eye. They likely retailed for a couple hundred. They were a size too small, but for a deal like that... I took them off the shelf and moved to the jewelry display, not seeing anything fitting with tonight’s theme.

  “Avery, you’re in luck!” Twyla reappeared, carrying a devil red gown draped over her arm and nearly trailing on the polished floor. “And it’s a size two. But it might need a hem.” She lifted the gown and hooked it on an ornate sconce.

  “Oh…” Drawn into the sultry ripples, I ran my fingers along the gently pleated chiffon. It wasn’t satin but somehow better. “Can I try it on?”

  “Of course.”

  Once in the dressing room, I shimmied out of my clothes and Twyla helped me with the zipper. The dress fit like a second skin and draped perfectly along my curves.

  “What do I do about this?” I gestured to the plunging neckline that plummeted to my lowest rib.

  Twyla arched a brow. “Nothing. You look incredible. That dress was made for you.”

  Now, for the painful part… “How much?”

  “Retail, it originally went for nine. I can go as low as one-fifty for you. One seventy-five if you want it pressed. Two if you need a hem.”

  “The nude Nappa pumps out there. I left them by the jewelry—”

  “Perfect!” Twyla snapped her fingers and disappeared, returning to the dressing room a second later with the heels in hand.

  Mindful of my still tender ankle, I slipped the shoes onto my feet. Finding my balance, I stepped onto the pedestal facing the half octagon of mirrors.

  “How do I look?”

  “My God. What I wouldn’t give to have your body just for a day.”