Page 19 of Defended By Love

I sigh. Maybe in another timeline, I play it cool and Grant walks past me as I’m looking ravishing while being surrounded by a group of people who are laughing at my hilarious jokes, and that’s how we’ll reconnect.

Here and now though, I’m heading to his building.

Goodbye second date. Hello protection order.

Grant’s building is even swankier in the dusky light. It’s the kind of rich where the doorman looks like a secret agent with his fancy uniform and could probably kick your ass like one too. He’s the sort of handsome that could be described as silver fox, except that he’s built more like a Clydesdale.

He assesses me as I approach the building. When I’m still twenty feet away, he folds his arms across his chest. Evidently, he has determined that I don’t belong. Whatever. I do belong—the imprints of my ass on the glass windows of the penthouse prove that I do.

“Good evening,” he says in a voice that emphatically does not wish me a good evening.

“Hi,” I answer back, again regretting that I didn’t dress for the opportunity to work. “I’d like to pop up to the penthouse.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “And I’d like to join Prime Minister Brenner at the opera tonight. It was always my childhood dream to sing.”

He stares at me, his face as wooden as his tree trunk-sized biceps. Again, I know I’m not amazing at all the social bits, but I have no idea if he’s joking or not. I really, really hope he’s not because this burly doorman singing opera is a visual I hope to remember always.

Or maybe I do hope he’s joking.

Missed dreams are sad.

“Right,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll just be—” I gesture behind him to the lobby. Technically, I gesture to the water fountain inside the lobby. My point is still made.

The doorman shifts to block my view. Apparently, I’m not allowed to see the fountain.

“I’m, uh, sort of seeing the guy in the penthouse,” I say because showing up at his home isn’t going to make me seem desperate enough. No, I really want to shoot myself in the foot here. Saying you’re dating someone after a casual hookup is the reddest of all the flags. Dr. Debbie would tear me a new one if she knew I was saying this.

The doorman looks me over. “Is that so? You and him?”

I might be overthinking things, but he seems a bit incredulous. Nice place or not, I am penthouse girlfriend material. Objectively, I’m considered to be attractive—my face is very symmetrical. I have a good job. I’m well-educated. I floss.

“Yes,” I snip at him. “I was here last night.”

He looks me over with a face that was made for playing poker. I’m insanely jealous of it. I have a slight nostril flare that can give me away when I’m stretching the truth. Thank goodness video recording isn’t allowed in court or else opposing counsel would all know my tell.

“There aren’t any visitors logged for visiting the penthouse last night,” he says finally.

Well, shit.

“I, uh, arrived through the balcony.”

“Of the penthouse?”

I nod. Despite my lack of nostril flare, there’s no way he thinks I’m telling the truth. I wouldn’t believe me.

“Just, please, trust me. Can you call up Grant. He’ll tell you. I really, really need to talk to him.”

“I think you should leave now,” he says, crushing my hopes of retaining some of my dignity for when I see Grant.

“No, listen. Please! Just call him. He’ll tell you. He’s actually expecting me!” There’s a desperate waver in my voice that I would zero in on and destroy in a witness.

“Miss, you need to go.” His voice is polite, but firmer than a granite mattress.

“Just listen—” I practically yell. I’m not just showing up at his home, I’m making a scene outside it.

Fucking wonderful.

I really hope he’s up to something bad so I’m not actually blowing any chance I have with a good guy. Not that I ever make it to a second date, but since last night wasn’t really a date, I was hoping to see him again.

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