Page 40 of Hard Deal

CALEB ROUNDED THE corner and headed up the path to his apartment building when he spotted the best thing he’d seen all day: Imogen in a pair of faded jeans with a rip over one knee and a black top that clung to her sexy curves.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans before, Ms. Hargrove,” he teased.

“Miss Hargrove.” She fiddled with the end of her long gold braid. “Single and loving it, remember?”

This time he couldn’t smirk at the joke. He didn’t want Imogen to be single and loving it—he wanted her to be his.

His.

The word hissed in his mind, like a warning. Seeing her here—dressed down and bare-faced and looking more beautiful than ever—waiting for him, ready to come upstairs, had his body buzzing. Normally he’d blame it on the beers, allow himself to think that something else was responsible for that addictive feeling. But it was all her.

You can choose your friends...

He could choose more than that. He could choose her. And he didn’t want to stop at friendship.

“Welcome to Casa Allbrook.” He swiped his key card over the security pad and led her inside.

The building was one of his father’s earlier creations—it wasn’t sleekly modern like the newer towers, but Caleb enjoyed the slightly outdated charm. Plus, the apartments were bigger and he liked the fact that he was less likely to bump into any of his father’s cronies here. They’d all taken up residence in the fancier buildings.

They headed to the elevator and Caleb hit the button for the top floor.

“Penthouse, huh?” Imogen said with a nod. “I should have guessed.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment. Without responding, he observed her. Imogen wasn’t the greatest at hiding her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. But he enjoyed that—her body was responsive and communicative, and she spoke clearly through her actions and inactions. It was comforting to know where he stood.

But now the language wasn’t positive. She picked at a frayed patch on her jeans, her pale pink nail polish chipped around the jagged edge of her thumb where she’d no doubt been chewing on it. He got the impression her lack of makeup and the plain clothes were meant to be a signal, too. A warning. Her appearance told him this wasn’t a date.

When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, she practically leaped out. “You’re awfully skittish tonight,” he said.

The plush carpeted hallway muffled their footsteps as they walked to his front door, which was one of only two on the top floor. The silence amplified the tension between them.

“I’m not skittish,” she said. “But I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

Ah, so he was on the money. She definitely didn’t want him to think this was a date. Caleb shoved his key into the lock and let them in. Usually he felt a sense of relief in coming home—because this was a space where he didn’t have to worry about what anyone else thought. He could be himself. But now he’d caught Imogen’s tension, and the feeling sat uncomfortably on him.

“Any mistakes or any more mistakes?” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and walked through to the bedroom so he could hang it up. Imogen’s footsteps sounded cautious and slow behind him. She stopped at the edge of his bedroom, not daring to set foot inside.

“Any more.” She cleared her throat. “The other day in the office, we shouldn’t have... It was unprofessional.”

“Life’s more exciting when you’re a bit unprofessional.” He slid open the mirror door to his wardrobe and hung his jacket up.

“Is everything organised by colour?” she asked. “I’m not sure why that surprises me so much.”

Caleb’s image was the one area where he could exercise control. The wardrobe was custom fit to cater to his every need. Shirts hung in a gradient from white through blue through bolder patterns all the way to the dark shades. His suits were hung in a similar manner from the palest grey to the inkiest black. A lone navy suit—which he’d barely worn since it made him look too much like this brother—hung at the end next to his tuxedo. Even his shoes were arranged by colour and style, all housed with shoe trees so they’d keep their shape.

Not a single item was ever out of place.

“You should see my sock drawer,” he quipped.

Suddenly, having Imogen in his space was like being part of an exhibition. He’d never thought about how much his place showed the real him—the guy who was organised, who lined his books up alphabetically, who liked order and was neat as a pin. It was the part of him he’d hidden in the office, preferring a charmingly chaotic front, with clashing colours and a sly grin because it was a better mask than anything else at his disposal.

He did everything he could not to be like his brother and father. To divert people from understanding the real reason he was a black sheep in his own family. He made it look like he was a playboy and a party animal and a natural born charmer. It was the perfect disguise and the reason he’d never be respected while he worked for his dad.

A double-edged sword.

“We should talk about your meeting with Daniel,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s why I’m here.”

More barriers. Imogen was working overtime to draw a line between them, to push him away. Was she scared her willpower wouldn’t hold up?

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