Page 17 of My CEO Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #5)

T ed

The Dexter Capital meeting went exactly as Ted had scripted it.

Every slide landed perfectly, every projection impressed, every question met with the kind of sharp, confident response that made investors reach for their checkbooks.

By ten-thirty a.m., Ted had secured the largest funding round in CloudSync's history, enough money to scale nationally, hire the team they needed, and transform his scrappy startup into a serious player.

He should have been euphoric. Instead, sitting in his Porsche outside the Dexter building, staring at the signed term sheet in his hands, Ted felt absolutely nothing.

Well, not nothing. He felt the hollow ache that had taken up residence in his body since yesterday, the one that intensified every time he thought about Monica's face when she'd closed her apartment door.

He felt the phantom taste of her mouth, the memory of her hands fisted in his shirt, the way she'd looked at him.

Ted's phone buzzed with congratulatory texts from his team, from investors who'd heard the news, from business contacts who always materialized when success was announced. But the only number he wanted to see on his screen was Monica's, and that was the one call that would never come.

Because he'd fucked it up. Completely, irrevocably, like the emotionally unavailable asshole she'd probably always suspected him to be.

Ted drove home in a haze of should-be celebration and actual misery, his hands gripping the steering wheel while his mind replayed every moment of yesterday afternoon.

The way Monica had guided him through his panic attack with such gentle competence.

The way she'd kissed him. The way she'd screamed his name when he'd made her come, like he was the only man who'd ever touched her properly.

And then the way she'd looked at him in the hallway—hurt and confused and trying so hard to hide it behind politeness.

Ted parked in the garage and took the elevator to twelve, hyperaware of every inch of space where Monica had been pressed against him, her breath hot against his ear, the tight heat of her body accepting him completely.

His cock stirred despite his emotional turmoil, and Ted cursed under his breath.

Even thinking about Monica made him hard, made him want to pound on her door and remind her exactly how good they'd been together.

But that would only confirm what she probably already believed—that he was a selfish bastard who thought with his dick and treated women like stress relief.

The hallway was quiet as Ted approached his apartment, but as he slid his key into the lock, he heard Monica's voice through her door. Not her usual calm yoga instructor tone, but a sharp and strained tone that made him freeze.

"Thirty days? You're giving me thirty days to come up with fifty thousand dollars?" Monica's voice cracked slightly. "Mrs. Arbuckle, I've been renting that space for three years. My students depend on those classes."

Ted's hand stilled on his doorknob. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping in on her conversation, but he couldn’t help himself.

"I understand it's business," Monica continued, her voice growing smaller. "But I can't just... yes, I know the new owners want to renovate. Yes, I understand the market rate has increased."

There was a long pause.

"No, I don't have other options lined up. I thought... I thought I had more time." Monica's voice broke completely on the last words.

Monica was losing her studio. The space where she taught yoga, where she'd built something meaningful from nothing, where she helped people find the kind of peace that had eluded Ted his entire adult life. And she had thirty days to come up with more money than most people saw in a year.

Ted's mind immediately shifted into problem-solving mode, the way it always did when presented with a crisis that had quantifiable solutions.

Fifty thousand dollars wasn't insurmountable.

It was less than Ted spent on marketing in a quarter.

The real challenge would be finding Monica a space she could afford long-term, somewhere that wouldn't price her out again in two years.

But even as Ted's business brain cataloged potential solutions, his heart was focused on the broken sound of Monica's voice.

She was probably sitting in her apartment right now, surrounded by the crystals and plants that made her feel centered, trying to figure out how to rebuild her life from scratch.

Again.

Ted remembered Monica telling him about leaving her marketing career, how yoga had saved her during the dark period after college. This studio wasn't just her business, it was her sanctuary, her purpose, the thing that had pulled her back from the edge of panic attacks and corporate despair.

And now someone was taking it away from her.

Ted unlocked his apartment and immediately pulled out his laptop. If Monica needed a new space, Ted would find her one. If she needed connections, he had them. If she needed money, well, he'd just secured more than enough to solve her problem ten times over.

He spent the next four hours making calls.

First to his commercial real estate contact, then to three developers who owed him favors, then to a property management company that specialized in affordable artist spaces.

By midnight, he had a list of seven potential locations, three of which were available immediately at below-market rates.

The best option was a ground-floor space in Fremont, twice the size of Monica's current studio with natural light and parking.

The owner was a tech entrepreneur who'd made his fortune and now focused on supporting local artists and wellness practitioners.

Ted had helped the guy navigate a complex acquisition two years ago, and calling in that favor felt like the best decision he'd made all week.

First thing the next morning, he called him.

"Ted Corwin, you son of a bitch," Bill Armitage answered on the second ring. "I heard about the Dexter deal. Congratulations."

"Thanks. Listen, I need a favor."

"Name it."

"You have that space in Fremont, the one you've been trying to rent to wellness practitioners. I have someone who'd be perfect for it. A yoga instructor getting priced out of her current space. She needs somewhere she can afford long-term, with room to grow her practice."

"And you're personally vouching for her?"

“Without question.”

"Good enough for me. Have her call my office as soon as she can. We'll work it out."

Ted ended the call feeling better than he had since Monica's door had closed in his face.

He couldn't fix what he'd broken between them, couldn't take back the way he'd retreated into corporate mode when rescue arrived.

But he could solve this problem, could give Monica the space she needed to rebuild what someone else was trying to take away.

Ted was reaching for his phone to text Monica the contact information when he heard her voice through the wall again.

"I know it's not the end of the world," Monica was saying.

"I know I could find another job, go back to marketing, get a steady paycheck.

But Mal, this studio is everything I've built.

It's proof that I made the right choice, that walking away from corporate life wasn't just some privileged quarter-life crisis. "

If Monica thought losing her studio would invalidate every choice she'd made, it would prove that her mother and college friends were right about the impracticality of choosing meaning over money.

"No, I can't ask my parents for help," Monica continued. "They already think I'm wasting my life on 'California nonsense.' If I call them asking for fifty thousand dollars to save my yoga business, it'll just confirm everything they've said about my lack of practical sense."

Another pause.

"I don't know what I'll do if I lose this. Without the studio, without my students, I'm just another failure who couldn't make her dreams pay the bills."

Ted closed his eyes, Monica's words hitting harder than any investor rejection ever could.

She was facing the same fear that had driven him to work eighteen-hour days for three years, the terror of being exposed as fundamentally inadequate, of having to admit that everything you'd sacrificed for wasn't worth the cost.

And unlike Ted, Monica didn't have business connections or investors willing to write seven-figure checks. She'd built her studio through sheer determination and the kind of authentic passion that couldn't be faked or leveraged or optimized for maximum return.

Monica was everything Ted had forgotten how to be—genuine, purpose-driven, willing to choose meaning over security. And now the universe was punishing her for it.

Ted looked at his phone, Bill Armitage's contact information ready to send. But texting Monica felt cowardly, impersonal. If he was going to help her, if he was going to risk her anger and accusations of corporate manipulation, he should at least have the balls to face her directly.

Before he could lose his nerve, Ted walked to Monica's door and knocked.

The conversation inside stopped abruptly. Ted heard movement, footsteps, the sound of Monica checking the peephole.

"Mal, I'll call you back," Monica said, but she didn’t open the door. “Yes?” She sounded wrung out, defeated in a way that made him want to break something.

"I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About the studio. About your lease situation."

Another pause, longer this time. "Were you listening to my phone call?"

"Not intentionally. But yes. Let me help you."

"I don't need your help."

"Bullshit. You need fifty thousand dollars in thirty days, and I have connections that could solve your problem."

"What's the catch?"

The question hit harder than it should have. "There's no catch."

"There's always a catch with men like you."