Page 57

Marlow Marché

“Marshhh—”

“Marché,” I say, emphasizing the ending. I’m used to people butchering my last name. What I’m not used to is a stranger standing in my high-security building on my floor, much less at my front door without being buzzed in by the doorman prior to arrival.

I thought Jackson would be picking me up for the party. With a slouchy misbuttoned gray shirt and jeans that sag, this guy is definitely not Jackson St. James.

When he remains standing there staring at me, I eye the large envelope in his hands, trying to scan it for clues to his presence. “I’m Marlow Marché.”

He hands me the package, and seeing my name on the front has me reaching forward. As soon as I take it, he says, “You’ve been served.” Tipping his hat, he chuckles. “Have a great day.”

“What?” My voice shakes, matching my hands as the words sink in. “What do you mean I’ve been served? For what?”

Shrugging, he punches the button to call the elevator, and then ignores me.

I hold the envelope out from me like it’s an infestation in my home and then tilt my head to the side to read the return address. The bank? I thought I had more time to find a solution. My stomach drops because I know this can’t be good.

After the bank rejected the deposit I offered in good faith to secure more time to come up with the down payment, I didn’t realize they weren’t willing to negotiate. Is that what this is? My time is up.

I feel sick.

“Financial institutions don’t care about feelings.” The last words my dad said to me after cutting me off financially ring through my head. I glance down at the package that feels as cold as the knife he stabbed into my back.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Who fakes the purchase of their daughter’s apartment?

Apparently, my dad.

The months of unpacking his deceit while packing my bags and belongings has been a task I never thought I’d bear.

And the bills?

Who knew things were so damn expensive?

Apparently, not me.

Now I do.

How am I supposed to clean up this mess on my own?

Returning inside my apartment, I close the door with my foot and then lock the bolt, sliding the tips of my fingers against the smooth steel.

Still holding the package away from me, I walk into the kitchen and drop it on the counter next to my crystal-encrusted clutch.

Did the bank really have to serve me on New Year’s Eve?

Stepping back, I stare at it as if I can magically make it disappear, but I know that time has been running out for months, and I’ve had no such luck.

Deep down, I admittedly hoped things would turn around like they always do—in my favor, that is.

But I’m thinking I’m supposed to learn a lesson.

I just wish it wasn’t at the expense of my apartment.

No. I can’t let this get to me. Not tonight, anyway.

I grab my lipstick—a bold red—that makes me feel more like the Marlow I know I am— Confident. Strong. Determined —and then use the mirror inside my bag to apply it.

“You can do this, Marlow,” I say before touching up the bow at the top of my lip. “I’ll show everyone that I can stand on my own two feet.” Somehow.

I slide the lipstick into my clutch and turn to leave. But my gaze sweeps across the delivery lying on my countertop like a bomb ready to detonate.

My stomach twists in forewarning. Dammit. I’ll be distracted all night if I don’t at least have a peek at the contents.

My heart beats heavy in my chest, my throat constricting as I set my clutch back down. The envelope scratches against my palm as I rip it open and pull the sides apart.

Eviction Notice.

Despite knowing this was coming, the weight of the announcement crushes me.

I blink back the tears forming in my eyes.

As an art director, I can’t afford this apartment without help from my dad.

I look around the space, my home, and know that Bob Marché can’t afford it any longer either since he filed for bankruptcy.

Another knock is heard. Jackson.

I swipe my clutch from the counter, leaving the documents behind and hoping to forget about them for the night as I head to answer the door.

What am I going to do? Where will I go?

There’s no time to answer questions. Hell, there have been months to prepare, and I still haven’t come up with a solution. I was hoping for a miracle that didn’t come through.

A third knock raps against the door, this time louder. I can deal with this mess tomorrow since this might be the last time I get to celebrate. Whatever it takes, I’m determined to enjoy tonight.

When I swing open the door, I’m hit with a gorgeous smile and clean-shaven face that shows off the strength of the jawline.

Jackson’s dressed in what looks like a tailored Tom Ford black suit, and the light in the hall shines in his blue eyes.

I swear they twinkle for me when he winks.

He looks so handsome that I momentarily forget that we’re nothing more than friends with the occasional benefits.

Jackson’s always been a bit of trouble, but trouble might be just the thing I need tonight.

Giving me the same smirk that got me into bed this past summer, he asks, “Are you ready for me?”