Page 1

ONE
NAOMI
Ishould ring the bell.
The spare key digs into my palm as I stand outside the apartment.
I would ring it. But I know he won’t answer.
The key slips into the lock easily, and I push the door open with my shoulder, the stench of stale beer and take-out immediately turning my empty stomach. Wrinkling my nose, I step cautiously inside and softly close the door behind me.
The living room is a disaster.
Empty bottles, crushed beer cans, crumpled food containers, and a lone sock draped over the arm of the couch. And the sink in what used to be a chef’s dream of a kitchen? A mountain of dirty dishes that could rival Everest.
This isn’t the Brandon I know. The Brandon I know is a neat freak, obsessive even, about cleanliness. You could have eaten from every surface. Now? It looks like a frat house the morning after a rager.
I weave through the junk toward his bedroom. “Brandon?”
If he’s passed out, I suppose waking him gently might save me from his wrath.
The door is ajar.
He is sprawled on the bed, one arm hanging off the side, the other covering his eyes. His bare chest rises and falls steadily, the defined six-pack tapering into a low V that disappears beneath the blanket draped across his hips.
I should leave. Turn around and walk out. Let him wallow in his misery.
But my feet carry me closer.
Half-empty bottles litter his nightstand, along with a container from Elliot’s restaurant.
“Brandon.” I touch his shoulder. “You need to get up.”
He stirs, arm sliding from his face. Those blue eyes crack open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they land on me.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cupcake.” A smirk tugs at his lips, his eyes lingering on my collarbone, then my waist, before meeting my gaze again. “Come to join me?”
God. Help me.
His face is shadowed by stubble, and his hair is a disheveled mess. He looks like hell. Maybe he’ll be too weak to fight me on this.
I step back, crossing my arms. “When’s the last time you showered?”
“Dunno. What day is it?” He pushes himself up, the blanket slipping dangerously low.
“Tuesday. You missed the board meeting, and the event starts in 2 hours.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” comes the obvious lie. I’m here, after all. “But people will talk if you don’t show. You can’t just skip it.”
He closes his eyes again, rubbing his temples as if that’ll fix everything or make me disappear. “Tell them I’m sick or something.”
“Like they’ll believe that.”
“Maybe I don’t give a shit. Ever think of that?”
“This isn’t just about you. The company?—”