Page 74 of Manhattan State of Mind

Okay, this is the last straw. I should march in there and give Spider a piece of my mind, but I’m too much of a chicken.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the key JP gave me days ago. It seems to call to me now, an escape.

???

An hour later, I find myself standing in the lobby of Manhattan’s most opulent high-rise, armed with a hastily packed duffle bag.

When JP emailed the address last week, I didn’t put two and two together that he was referring to this skyscraper. Ninety floors of steel and glass towering over Manhattan, built for billionaires and influencers whose only struggle is deciding which private island to visit next.

And here I am, looking like a lost backpacker who took a wrong turn at Central Park.

Yet the whole battalion of security guards doesn’t even blink as I march toward the elevators. One even tosses me a smug smirk. I bundle up in my coat to cover my braless condition. The cool night air has sent my nipples into a military salute. I hightailed it out in a cab before Spider could wrap up. I have a lot of new space in my head right now and I don’t need to fill it with that.

As the glass elevator climbs higher and higher, so does my panic.

Quinn & Wolfe own properties scattered all over the city, and they’re known for providing temporary accommodations for relocated employees—but here?

What kind of batshittery is this?

Stepping off the elevator on the eightieth floor, my heart is lodged firmly in my throat. This is a mistake; I don’t belong in a place where the flower arrangements cost more than my apartment.

As I make my way across the glossy marble, my sneakers emit a mortifying squeak like mice being stepped on.

Taking a deep breath, I approach the unit number and fumble with the key, feeling more out of place than anywhere in my life.

The lock finally gives, and the door swings open.

“Holy hell,” I gasp, my eyes practically popping out of my skull as I peer into the apartment.

Thisis what New York money smells like. Chic, cream interiors, ceilings so high you’d need a megaphone to have a conversation, and a chandelier that looks like it’s made of Swarovski crystals that could do serious damage if it decided to detach.

“Lucy.”

The deep drawl makes me squeal. Whirling around, I suck in a sharp breath as JP saunters out from the apartment across the hall.

“Do you… live here?” I stammer, drinking in the sight of him.

Fuck. Me. Sideways.

I had this image in my head of him in a suit 24/7 like some type of CEO cyborg. I figured he probably bathed in his suits. Slept in the fucking things. Had special suit pajamas for bedtime and naughty time.

Oh no.

His chest is bare, a brilliant showcase of sexy bronzed muscles. Obscene.

And those sweatpants. Those scandalously low-hung sweatpants with that perfect V, practically begging my eyes downward, willing me to have an impromptu eye-fuck.

It’s clear that there’s a monster package tucked away in those sweatpants.

God, give me strength.

I can’t unsee this. This sight is seared into my brain, forever and ever amen.

“Yeah, this is my place. What’s going on?” He strides closer, towering over me as his eyes scan my face with concern and something else that sends shivers down my spine.

The hallway shrinks around us and my body seizes up under his gaze.

“Lucy? You okay? Why are you here at this hour?”