Page 17 of Boarded Hearts

My phone buzzes.

Kate

I want a detailed report when you get home, missy (I assume you will be returning home tonight!) Don’t forget to wear your gift!

I might have lost my mind, but Kate turned certifiably insane this afternoon at work when I received a special delivery, right to my desk. Finishing up an email to one of Mark’s clients, Margo, our receptionist slid a beautifully wrapped box to me. “This just came for you, Felicity.”

I stared down at it, certain there had been a mix-up, since my birthday isn’t for months.

“It’s definitely for you—look at the tag.”

I thought we could sync our sessions.

There will be a car at your place at six.

See you tonight,

J x

Jon sent me the latest Apple watch complete with a gorgeous emerald strap.I wondered how he knew where I worked but then I remembered mentioning Preston & Preston to him at the cocktail bar. He really doesn’t miss a detail.

Kate immediately lost her shit and now wants to know when the wedding is. I can’t deny it’s such a sweet gesture, but the cautious side of me questions his motives. Is this his way of getting into my knickers? Is this all just a challenge for him? He never dates women, so why would I be any different? I try to bury my niggling doubts, but beyond Jon’s motives, I’m really not sure what mine are either. I’m not looking for another relationship. Since Elliott and I separated, I’ve been enjoying time by myself. I want to make the most of being independent. All I’ve ever known is a controlling marriage, and there’s no way I’m allowing another man to dictate my life again.

Five to six, and I’m ready to go. I opted for a pair of black crop leggings and a white sports bra with a sky-blue cami on top, my usual workout attire.

The buzzer goes, indicating the driver has arrived. I grab my water bottle, shove my feet into my trainers, zip up my hoodie, and check I’m wearing my new watch. My stomach feels like an electric mixer, with a healthy dose of anxiety and excitement churning around.

On sight of the car parked outside my building, I realize it’s not your usual cab company and the driver looks sort of familiar. “Good evening, Ms. Thompson. Mr. Morgan has asked me to pick you up and take you straight to his apartment. It’s not a long drive, about fifteen minutes away.”

“You picked me up that night from the cocktail bar?” I ask, suddenly realizing how Jon knows my address.

The driver smiles. “I’m Jon’s private driver, Gerard.”

Private driver. Wow.

En route, I reply to Kate’s earlier text and assure her I will be returning home tonight, but the jury’s out on whether I provide all the details.

Pulling up to Jon’s building, I get out of the black SUV and approach the doorman. Apparently, he’s expecting me and pushes the door open. “Please take the elevator on the left, Ms. Thompson,” he explains.

“Thank you, to what floor?” I ask.

The doorman smiles. “Oh, this elevator only goes to the penthouse, so it will take you directly to the apartment.”

He hands me a card with a code and wishes me an enjoyable evening. This really is another world away from my tiny one-bed. I tap the code in and clutch my tote bag to my side as the elevator ascends. Time seems to go by in slow motion as eventually it dings and comes to a stop.

Jesus.

As the doors open, I’m greeted with spectacular gray marble floors and crisp white walls adorned with print after print of what must be Jon’s family. There are also some action shots from the NHL, although I don’t think any of them are of Jon himself.

Looking up, there are two black chandeliers, sleek and modern in appearance but exuding expense. I think this is his foyer, but it would easily swallow my entire apartment. Up ahead, I spot his kitchen, so I go to kick off my shoes and head in that direction.

“No need to take them off, Angel. But by all means, make yourself at home.”

I turn to the right and find Jon standing in an archway to a large room with an enormous stone fireplace roaring behind him. He’s dressed in low-slung gray sweatpants and a black wet-look gym tank that hugs every single groove of his torso. I look down at his feet to find them bare, ankles crossed and hands in his pockets. He looks magnificent, his wavy dark hair is tousled and effortlessly perfect, and when he smiles, his dimples pop.

Lord, have mercy.

Taking in his splendor, I feel like I’ve already completed a three-hour workout.

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