Page 2 of Any Means Necessary

I need to put a shirt on.

“I have to get a fresh shirt and finish cooking. So I’m going to hang up on you now.” I announce, walking back over to where my phone sits by the stove, just barely out of the meat’s spitting range. The steaks roar loudly as I flip them, before settling into the pool of melted butter and herbs.

“Fine.” Mia’s voice brightens with excitement. “But video chat with me tomorrow so we can watch The Bachelor together. I heard from one of the interns that Brandi slaps someone, and I bet it’s Ashlyn.” Damn, that sounds awesome, I love petty drama.

“Are you serious? Yeah, we’re definitely watching that tomorrow. I’ll call you,” I promise. “Bye, Mia. Love you.”

“Love you too, babe. Talk to you later.”

Ending the call, music resumes playing over the house bluetooth speakers. Cranking down the burner to lower the heat on the skillet and praying that I’m not about to ruin my dinner, I rush to my room in search of a clean shirt. The guest room I’m occupying is on the first floor. I chose the one closest to the kitchen on purpose.

“Come on, where is it?” Muttering in frustration, I dig through the pile of laundry next to my suitcase for my favorite lounge tee. This is what I get for letting this room get so messy, even after only two weeks of staying here. I can’t find the right shirt and now my steak is going to burn. Giving up, I pull on a t-shirt from the top of the pile and head back to the kitchen. Walking down the hall, I can hear my steak sizzling on the stove over the music playing. Humming along, I turn the corner and my breath catches in my chest.

I freeze.

A man I’ve never seen before stands at the stove, spooning the butter over my steak after turning off the burner. His giant frame fills the expansive kitchen, his presence dominating the space. He’s definitely someone who can easily overpower me in a heartbeat.

Shit, what do I do?

I stand frozen, my heart racing as the surprise wears off. Time seems to slow as my limited options run through my brain on a loop. I’m tempted to turn around and go lock myself in the bathroom. But my phone is on the counter next to the stranger, and I’ll have no way of contacting help. Staying to confront the man isn’t my favorite idea either—dread has a painfully-tight knot forming in my stomach at just the thought of it. Either way, I’m screwed.

I’m standing here too long, and I can see the moment he senses me. His head turns, and our eyes lock—mine looking like a deer in headlights, I’m sure.

Shit.

Intense hazel eyes move over me, reading and processing, as he runs a hand over a dark, immaculately groomed beard. The sharp black suit covering his massive frame seems both confining and fitting as he moves around the space—like it’s a custom-tailored uniform he’s itching to be free of. He regards me for a moment while my brain lags on something to say.

“Who are you?” That’s the genius question I come up with.

Confrontation it is.

“I can ask you the same thing.” His deep voice is calm and collected. He reaches into the cabinet to the right of the stove to grab two plates, completely at ease.

“I don’t know what you want, but you need to leave. Right now.” There’s nothing I can do about his presence, and we both know it.

“Oh, do I?” His voice is edged with a challenge. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll call the police.” I’m bluffing. I have no way to call anyone, I’m just praying he doesn’t realize that. But the way his eyes glance at the phone next to him tells me he does.

“That would be a lot more threatening if I didn’t have your phone over here with me.” He leans his hip against the counter, crossing thick arms over a broad chest and tilting his head at me. “And considering I own this apartment, I’m pretty interested in what the police would say. But by all means, call them.” Moving my phone from the other side of the stove, he puts it back down and sends it sliding across the counter. It stops just inches from me, and I stare at the device blankly as I process what he just told me.

“You’re the owner of this apartment?” His crisp black suit does say money, so does the gold watch on his wrist. He’s a lot younger than I pictured, nowhere near the balding middle-aged man I figured lives here. Instead, he looks to be in his early thirties. And his thick head of dark brown hair is far from balding. How easily he’s been navigating the kitchen is also a clue, but that doesn’t mean he actually owns the place.

“I am. Which leaves the question; who are you?” His movements are relaxed and controlled as he plates the steak, green beans, and potatoes. It’s like he’s preparing to eat with an old friend instead of standing with a stranger in his own home—if he’s even telling me the truth.

He pauses for a moment to shrug off his suit jacket and drape it over the back of one of the island stools. Rolling the sleeves of his black dress shirt to his elbows reveals muscular forearms completely inked in full tattoo sleeves, ending cleanly at his wrists. Suddenly he doesn’t look like the same man I was just talking to a second ago. Like Clark Kent’s glasses, by removing the expensive suit coat of a businessman, he transforms. With his clean-cut professional facade gone, there’s an air of danger about him, the intricate tattoos hinting at a darker story.

Who is this man?

“I’m a travel nurse. One of the other nurses set me up to watch this apartment so he could take my place when I quit my contract,” I say, just stalling while I try to remember the name of the guy Tony said owns this place. Something Russo. It started with a C, I think.

Collin? No.

“Do you have a name, travel nurse?” He’s pouring two glasses of red wine, placing them with the plates on the island next to tall glasses of water. Next comes the silverware—a fork and a steak knife at each setting.

This is looking more like a date than a home invasion. Which one of us is doing the invading has yet to be determined. But it’s feeling more and more like it’s me by the second.

“Alexandra West,” I supply. “Lexie.” What was that name? Callum, that’s what it was.

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