Page 11 of In Case You Didn't Know

The next camera takes over. She peers through windows, wide-eyed. Panther enters the hallway behind her, eyes locked like a predator. Heat spikes in my chest. The likelihood is he’s a coward in real life, but I feel better knowing that one of my guards is keeping watch.

I bring my eyes back to the screen. She walks with uncertainty into a voyeur room, standing in the shadows as bodies tangle on the bed. Her breath lifts her chest, no bra, nipples tight under the silk. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and my blood roars.

Enough. I kill the feed. I’m watching this for her safety, not her curves. Focus, Fitzgerald.

I’m about to go through the whole thing again when my phone buzzes with an alert from my intercom.

“Yes?” I say, frowning, because nobody should be pressing my intercom at this time of night.

A soft voice echoes through the line. “It’s Francie. Let me in.”

Fuck.

I pull up the lobby cam, and there she is, in a pair of pink unicorn pajamas, cheeks flushed, a very nervous security guard hovering behind her.

Perfect. The one woman I am trying not to think about just showed up at my door in sleepwear.

I press the microphone.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, boss,” the guard says. “She refused to take no for an answer. Made me drive her here.”

He’s new. I can’t remember his name. And I’ll deal with him later. Thankfully he steps back, making it clear he’s not coming in.

Not that I’d let him. But still, my mouth quirks at the fact she made him drive her.

“We need to talk,” Francie says. And once again, I stare at her through a screen, but this time it’s live.

Sighing, I press the code to grant access to the elevator and stairwell.

And then I wait.

FRANCIE

When Autumn and I left college and announced we were leasing a tiny run-down place in Washington Heights, our brothers threw every fit known to man. They traded cash bribes, guilt trips, one dramatic Hudson meltdown the neighbors still talk about. We kept the apartment anyway, taking only their signatures on the lease.

Waltzing into Asher Fitzgerald’s marble-and-waterfall lobby in unicorn pajamas feels like I tracked mud into a Cartier showroom. He deals in billion-dollar contracts while I make up stories about hot warlords and their equally hot dragons, mostly in these pajamas.

“Francie.” His jaw is tight as he opens the door. He’s wearing his glasses, which makes me think he must be getting ready for bed. He’s usually a habitual contact lens wearer.

“Why did you put a security guard outside my door?” I ask.

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he gazes at me, the wire rim of his glasses carving neat angles around his cheekbones, making his eyes look dangerously sharp.

There’s a tic in his cheek, but his expression is neutral, like he’s unwilling to give anything away.

“Because you put yourself in an unsafe situation. And I wanted to make sure you didn’t get hurt.”

My mouth drops open. “Are you being serious right now?”

He runs his thumb over his jaw, so calm, so unruffled. Ugh, I hate how annoyed I am right now.

He exhales once, slow and controlled. “I’m very serious. I’m still trying to track down the asshole who wanted you. The guard stays on the door until I have a name and address.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Absolutely not. Shaun is done babysitting me. Tell him to pack up or I start charging him rent, and tomorrow morning I file a loitering complaint with the police. Your guard goes tonight, Asher, or the next knock on your door will be a cop asking why your company is stalking your sister’s best friend.”

For the first time he blinks and a rush of satisfaction bolts through me.