Page 42 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

HARRIET FISHER

T his isn’t just the fanciest apartment building I’ve stepped foot in—this is the nicest place period. Besides the gold fixtures, the pristinely clean marble floors upon entering the lobby, the lavender smell like I’ve been bath-bombed by Lush—the exclusiveness is nothing I’ve encountered before.

The bell hop, entrance security, and some manager lady named Susanne all ask me multiple times who I’m here to see. They scan my ID in a machine. They flag down more security like I’m lying. They start making me believe Cobalt Stalker is printed on my forehead.

Ben did offer to meet me in the lobby. I told him, “I have feet, Cobalt boy. I don’t need an escort. Just tell me your apartment number.”

Mistake made.

This is just a giant reminder that having Ben at my side isn’t a knock on my capabilities. He just makes tough moments less fucking tiresome. By the end of this exchange, I have verified my name ten times.

Yes, I am Harriet Stevie Fisher.

The Harriet that Ben Cobalt said would be arriving.

And the staff gives me a lukewarm apology.

“People your age are usually the ones trying to sneak into the building to see the Cobalts. We’ve had over twenty attempts this summer since the Hales moved in.

We can’t be too careful. Have a nice night, ma’am.

” ID returned to me, I am now headed up the elevator, just glad there wasn’t a full-body search.

Clearly the average twentysomething isn’t renting an apartment here. Before I step on the 21 st floor, the elevator lets out a polite ding.

Wow, even the elevator is prissy.

I’m out of my element, but it never stops me from trudging ahead. Shifting the weight of my backpack on my shoulder, I march down the hallway. Deep red walls. Warm lighting. I dig it. I could live here— not that he’s asking me to move in, okay. Take a thousand hikes backward, Harriet.

I’m not obsessed with Ben Cobalt. I just like the building’s moody décor. Yep…I smack my lips, then I stop at door 2166.

I knock.

Fast-building anticipation rouses my nerves. I wait, smoothing my lips together, glancing left and right. Is there a doorbell?

Nope.

I rap my fist harder. He’s not standing you up. This isn’t a practical joke. He’s your friend. You’re fine. I hush the dusty insecurities that crawl out from under an ugly old sofa in my brain. He’s probably just taking a shit or watering a plant or…

A door opens from down the hall, and I twist my head to see a gorgeous girl slipping on silver high heels while tucking a glittery clutch under her armpit. She’s bouncing in an attempt to cram her foot in the shoe.

Shit, she sees me watching—or scowling.

Confusion pinches her brown brows. Stop staring, Harriet. After the pseudo-FBI interrogation downstairs due to being young, I expected to run into middle-aged Wall Street brokers. Not someone who looks around my age.

“Hey,” she calls out, more curious. I am the guest. She’s a tenant…maybe? She could be visiting someone too.

“Hi,” I say, more gruffly.

Heels on, the girl tugs down the short silver cocktail dress that molds her slender, athletic frame and complements her golden-brown skin. Fuck, she’s walking this way. She never takes her eyes off me, not even as I knock again.

She’s quickly undoing her double French braids. Shaking out the dark brown curls, she slows and sees which apartment I’m trying to enter.

2166.

She laughs hard. “Oh trust me, whoever you are. You don’t want to go in there. The whole apartment has a stench of smug male ego. It’s foul.” The door swings open on her last word.

I flinch but don’t move as…ugh fuck, it’s not Ben. I’m greeted by one of his older brothers.

Beckett is only in a white terry cloth towel. He has one hand on the door frame, another on the knot of the towel at his waist. Water drips down his jawline, his hair wet, but it’s his body—not even the tattoos on his bicep—that literally tries to magnetize my eyeballs.

Every inch of his abs is defined. Every lean muscle is carved like he’s chiseled from marble.

Even the girl behind me teeters in her heels like his presence steals oxygen. Righting herself, she wiggles her toes in her heel, then bends over to adjust the ankle strap. “And there’s the worst offender.”

Huh?

Off my limited experience with the Cobalt boys, I wouldn’t have picked Beckett as the most arrogant. The most intense, definitely. Like right now. His yellow-green eyes are latched on her.

“And there’s the resident squatter,” Beckett says smoothly. “Or do you prefer the brat down the hall?” There is slight annoyance in the angles of his face. I’m guessing he does not like her.

She straightens up. “I prefer Joana Oliveira…from her.” She points to me. “From you—you can keep my name out of your mouth.”

“Then stop coming around to bother me, or I might start to think you enjoy being in my mouth.”

She begins to look at me, maybe to shut him out, but he’s compelling her attention too much. I get it. Cobalts seem to be proficient at catching and reeling. His hook is already in her.

“She’s a little young for you, don’t you think?” Joana asks him.

I stiffen, wishing I was actual wallpaper. There is an awkward beat, and I know I appear younger than my actual age, but come on.

Beckett frowns a little, then asks me, “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Right on the cutoff,” Joana raises her brows at him.

He glares. “She’s Ben’s friend,” he says, no coarseness in his silky tone. “And what are you still doing here?”

Annoying him, apparently. “Checking on the mattress on your back. The one you always lug around. Worn out and springy. Just concerned about the girls you’re breaking in on that old thing.”

“You still carrying one?” His voice is so sensual. “Or did you finally realize you’d prefer to be pounded from behind. By me.” Holy fuck.

I should not be standing between them right now.

She staggers on her heels again. “No.”

“No?” His gaze drips down her body.

“Hmmmm-no. In your dreams, Cobalt.” She nods to me. “Later, Ben’s friend.”

“Harriet Fisher,” I introduce.

She smiles at me, then walks backward toward the elevator and says, “My big brother is Charlie’s full-time bodyguard. Oscar Oliveira. And I’ve been staying, not squatting, at Oscar’s apartment.”

“Paid for by security,” Beckett tells me. “She’s squatting.”

Her smile spreads. “A girl’s gotta use her connections.”

I watch her go. She’s pretty badass.

Beckett stares at her all the way until she disappears into the elevator. Opening the door wider, he lets me inside the apartment. I see him subtly adjusting his junk over the towel, as if he’s trying to subdue a hard-on, and when he catches me staring, my face ignites.

He looks completely unaffected. Not angry, not remotely ashamed. Totally unbothered. It’s masculine big dick energy. He simply says, “Ben’s on the phone. He should be out soon.” He has a relaxed stride as he goes farther into the kitchen.

Beckett Cobalt is a mood.

He swipes a half-opened box of Lucky Charms off the marble counter just as Ben enters from a hallway.

“Hey, sorry,” Ben tells me, pocketing his phone in gray sweats. The action guides my eyes down toward his crotch. Lingering there because those pants reveal a fact I did not know. Ben is hung.

Oh my God, Harriet. I didn’t come here to torture my pent-up self. I came here for a place to crash—as in sleep.

He’s also shirtless. Staring at his cut biceps should be safer territory, but I just remember being held by him in the sanctuary of my car. The force of his caring embrace, and I ache to be wound up in Ben’s stronghold again.

Ben has a peeking smile, as if he can tell I’m attracted, but thankfully, he rolls over it to explain, “I was talking to MVU’s hockey coach. I’m trying out on Monday.”

I nod. “Glad you got off the seesaw, Friend.” I knew he’d been debating on trying out. I told him he can always reject the offer if he makes the team. And if they say no , then the choice is made for him anyway.

“Did you leave this out for her?” Beckett asks Ben, lifting the cereal. “Because I’m going to put it away if not.”

“No. Tom probably forgot to put it up.” Ben nods to me. “You hungry, Fisher?”

Beckett rattles the box of cereal.

“I’m good. I ate a ton of Twizzlers earlier.” I watch Beckett place the cereal in a very organized kitchen cabinet.

I ease at this normalcy and look around.

I’ve seen flashes of the apartment over video call. Being here is wildly different. I don’t know why I pictured Animal House with dirty hampers of laundry and empty beer bottles. This place is spotless and smells even better than the lobby.

So Joana was wrong. There is no foul stench. Just a really attractive musk-and-pine scent wafting off Ben. Especially as he nears.

My heart jumps as he slides my backpack off my shoulder. I ignore the goose bumps forming on my arms to say, “You live in a well-guarded castle. I’m surprised they didn’t strip me to see if I’m wearing Cobalt4Ever panties.”

“Did they pat you down?” Concern darkens his baby blues.

“No,” I say. “I’m just messing with you. It wasn’t that bad.” But his worry about my well-being is a flutter-kick in my lungs. It’s weird how much I like it.

Ben is staring at Beckett, and his older brother comes around the kitchen island to tell him, “Have your bodyguard escort your friends up here next time.” He puts a calming hand on Ben’s shoulder, then says on his way out, “If Eliot throws a condom at you, tell him I said—” He speaks in French.

Ben laughs from his chest, then replies in the same language. His luminous smile descends on me. It somehow makes me feel included and not on the outskirts, despite knowing zero percent of what they said.

A thought passes over me in an engulfing wave. Is this what it’s like to feel loved? Or is this just run-of-the-mill infatuation? How would I even know the difference?

Once Beckett is gone, Ben loops me in. “He said to tell Eliot that he doesn’t need to be the condom Santa, gifting protection, when he fucks too much to spare one.”