Page 13

THIRTEEN

Kinsley

It took all afternoon to finally leave that damn office.

First it was a coffee run for Brantley. Apparently he indulges in a chocolate cream cold brew on Friday afternoons, and the little coffee shop four blocks away is his favorite. It doesn’t matter if there are several between here and there all making the same thing.

Then it was Wyatt. The dick still couldn't get my name right and had the audacity to ask Catherine for collated copies while he was standing next to the copy machine. Not on the other side of his office, not on a different floor, literally inches away.

Until he saw me shoving the papers into the loading tray he probably thought it was a decoration.

Maverick stopped me from leaving twice after that. The first time he roped me into looking for his lost cell phone, a cell phone which had fallen under his desk. It wasn’t until I was on my hands and knees crawling on his office floor he admitted he hadn’t even thought to look there. Did I mention I’m in a skirt and pantyhose?

And then I was almost free. I was seconds from the elevator door when Maverick decided he needed me to pull another client file. One he apparently needed urgently even though the case wasn’t due to go to court for another couple weeks.

It’s no wonder their secretaries never last long.

These guys are the worst. They’re demanding. Egotistical. Inept at doing basic tasks.

Oh, and did I mention they’re so annoyingly handsome?

I don’t know why that grates on my nerves so bad, but it does. Why can’t they look like trolls? None of the lawyers at my last firm looked half as good as they do. It’s not fair. I want to strangle them one by one.

I can handle the expense reports, pulling files, organizing emails, setting up meetings, taking messages and getting all their court documents in order. I’m no stranger to hard work and don’t back down when challenged. But there’s just something about the way they demand these things I can’t stand. I’m not sure if I want to knock them out with their own briefcases or push them down on my desk and undress them piece by piece, let them know who’s really in charge here.

Obviously the correct answer is the first option.

Despite how ridiculously hot they are—you know, if you like older jerk bosses, which I do not—I have zero desire to actually be with any of them. Okay, fine, maybe there’s a tiny little piece of me that might actually enjoy it, but I am looking to sell my virginity for top dollar, not give it away to one of my bosses. Especially when one of those bosses thinks I’m a frivolous woman who wasted her time decorating her office. Brantley’s words not mine. Maybe he likes the plain white walls and lack of color. It’s fine for him, but I’m not going to work in a drab prison.

In fact, I’m thinking about getting him a few portraits of various animals dressed up from the Victorian era.

I think he’d really love the pug wearing a monocle and a Shakespearean collar.

The look of pure terror on his face would be worth twenty-one, ninety-five plus shipping. That mental image has me chuckling all the way in their swanky apartment building, my arms loaded with their freshly cleaned suits and dress shirts.

“Good evening, miss, can I help you?”

I’m so close to rolling my eyes because of course these guys have a doorman. Hell, I’m lucky I have a front door. I can’t say I’m surprised, though. Not only do they own that law firm, but I get the distinct impression all three of them come from money. Hence, the general lack of awareness the three of them seem to have.

“Ah, yes.” I peek over the piles of suits. “I work for Ellis, Ellis, and Wallace. I’m here to drop off their dry cleaning.”

Preferably with you, Mr. Doorman, so I can get the hell out of here. My brother is waiting for me to cook dinner and I need to see if Brian’s dumbass is going to pick up the guitar he left at my place before I donate it to Goodwill.

“Miss Rhodes, I’ve been expecting you. I’m Josh, the afternoon concierge. I expect we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”

God, I hope not. The last thing I want to do is make this a regular Friday evening occurrence. No, thank you. I have much better things to do with my time.

“It’s nice to meet you, Josh.”

He’s all smiles as he holds up a set of keys, jangling them in the air. He seems nice. Too nice.

I can’t help but wonder how well he knows my bosses.

Looking at the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the streaks of gray through his dark hair, I’d put him somewhere in his mid-forties. Either he’s new to the building or has some kind of superpower. He looks like he actually likes them. Odd. And here I was thinking there was no way they could have any friends. “Here are their keys. Each one is labeled with their apartment number, and here’s a Post-It with the elevator code to the penthouses. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you; I will,” I murmur, taking the offered keys and the bright pink Post-It.

I’m about halfway to the elevator when Josh appears at my side, and I jump, nearly dropping half the suits.

“I almost forgot. Mr. Wallace requested the suits be hung up in their respective bedroom closets.”

Because of course these guys would assume I automatically know which apartment belongs to which boss. Just like on Wednesday when Wyatt demanded his morning coffee without telling me how he likes it. Not only was it my second day with them, but my first morning. How the hell was I supposed to know he likes it with a dash of cream and two sugars?

See what I mean?

They’re impossible with a capital I.

I have half a mind to go to the first apartment and toss everything over the back of the couch. They’ll figure it out. Except then I’d be subject to another lecture from Brantley, explaining exactly how important every minute detail is.

At least, I’ll get to see where he sleeps. I’m ninety-nine percent sure Brantley drinks the blood of his enemies and then lays down for a little nap in his velvet-lined coffin.

“Got it. Thanks again.”

I’m in the elevator, code punched in, and heading to the penthouse when my phone dings from the depths of my purse. And then dings again. At this point there must be a dozen missed messages, all of which I’ve been ignoring for the past couple hours.

Why?

Because I’m a damn chicken.

Like a moron, I had a few free minutes and thought it would be a good time to search for some virgin auctions. There were a few book recommendations, a Wikipedia page, and a few listings down was an actual auction site. I was about to click on it when Brantley snuck in my office like a damn ninja. I must have jumped five feet in the air and threw my phone in my purse like it was on fire. Haven’t looked at it since.

And I won’t. Not until I’m sure I’m alone.

Turns out there are exactly three penthouses on the top floor. That’s it. I couldn’t imagine seeing these guys at work all day and then coming home where, surprise, they’re still there. I’d murder someone. Probably Brantley.

Can you imagine Wyatt knocking on Maverick’s door to borrow a cup of sugar? Or trading recipes for pot roast?

Ridiculous.

I reach the first door, find the corresponding key, and head in, hoping they’ll all still be at the office for the foreseeable future. Especially since I have to wander around and try to figure out whose freaking place I’m in.

The apartment is huge, not that I expected anything different, and is decorated with neutrals and bold pops of color. There’s no way this is Brantley’s place and seems a little too cluttered for Wyatt. There’s dirty dishes in the sink, and I passed a couple pairs of shoes by the front door.

That leaves Maverick.

I’m tempted to snoop around, see if there are any skeletons lurking around in his closets, but I don’t want to be here all night. Nor do I want to be caught staring at his rumpled king-sized bed like I’m imagining the two of us rolling around in it. So, I hightail it through his room, find his closet, hang up everything with his name on it, and take off to the next apartment.

This one is easy. The large leather furniture, accented with dark wood, and the faint smell of clove give it away.

Brantley. His layout is similar, and I find his bedroom with ease. Sadly, there’s no coffin, just a perfectly made bed with white sheets and a matching fluffy duvet. It looks comfortable as heck and as much as I hate myself for thinking it, I’d love to curl up underneath that thing with my Kindle.

I’ve got to get out of here. Being all up in their personal spaces is messing with my head.

So, I hang his shirts as quickly as I can and rush to the third apartment, which must belong to Wyatt. The layout is the opposite of Maverick’s and instead of neutrals, this one is decorated in light grays and soft blues, and there’s not a thing that looks out of place.

I’m making my way through his living room when my phone goes off with another text notification.

With a groan, I hang my head.

Even though I’d love to keep ignoring it, I drape Wyatt’s suit over the back of his couch and dig out my phone. Colin wants to know what’s for dinner. He also sent me a few links to different cochlear implants to check out. Dammit. I’ve also got several messages from June asking me about the surgery and offering her help during recovery.

This is a lot. Why does life have to be so damn difficult? If I had parents who gave a damn about their own children, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

I need to figure this out and fast. I need money and lots of it.

And you know, I’m alone. Finally. It wouldn’t hurt to see what this whole auction thing is all about.

Instead of responding to my messages, I go back to my internet search, my fingers hovering over the link for Cherry Bid. I wait seconds, minutes.

Fuck it.

It’s a website. No harm ever came from opening a website. If I don’t like what they have to say, I can simply close this tab. No harm, no foul. I don’t need to actually sign up for anything if I’m not comfortable.

I take a deep breath, then another, and click the link.

The site itself is simple, listing out the benefits and ease of working with them and—my breath catches in my throat. They have an auction starting on Tuesday and ending Friday afternoon. One week from today. Holy shit balls . The last day to register is Monday which gives me two days to decide if this is something I can go through with.

“Is that my dry cleaning?”

I make a noise, something between a yell and a screech. My heart races. I nearly jump out of my skin and try to close my phone but everything seems to be happening in slow motion. Why can’t I find the button? Why won’t this website close? And why in the hell is he not at the office?

It doesn’t matter. I’m dead. Deader than dead. Why? Because I lose my grip on my phone and it slips through my fingers, falling face-up at Wyatt’s feet.