Page 40 of My Lucky Charm

He gives me a quizzical look. “It’s the whole floor. You’ll have to swipe the card before you hit the button.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“And it’s under the name Marcus Aurelius. We take our tenants’ privacy very seriously.”

I switch my bag from one shoulder to the other as the weight of this whole situation finally begins to sink in.

I’m working for a professional athlete. Maybe since I don’t watch or like hockey, this didn’t seem like as big of a deal as it is, but this is a very big deal.

Like, a whole top floor, penthouse kind of deal.

His job puts him in the spotlight. He could have press outside. Or a stalker.

Don’t a lot of hot athletes have crazy women after them? Like the pitcher who had to play in Japan because some woman made up a story about him?

It dawns on me that it’s my job to make sure that kind of thing doesn’t happen. I switch my bag again.

I step inside the elevator as the realization works a number on my nerves. I swipe the card, hit the button to the top floor, and say a silent prayer that is basically just a little help here, a little help here, a little help here over and over again.

When the elevator stops, I look down at my feet and inhale a very deep, very slow breath.

The doors open, and I’m not in a hallway. I’m in his apartment.

It’s not really an apartment. It’s more like a condo. It’s huge.

And he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hello?” I call out in hopes of avoiding any additional awkward run-ins, like, oh, say, crashing into his bare chest after a shower or something.

The loft is quiet, and there are boxes piled along the perimeter. If I had to guess, I’d say this place came furnished, and while the apartment itself is oozing with character, there are no personal touches in here at all.

I’m surprised that he doesn’t live in the sleek, modern, fancy building I expected him to live in, but not surprised there’s nothing about this space that identifies it as his. He did just move here, after all.

Though, I’d be willing to bet that this is exactly what it’ll look like a year from now.

Maybe I can make it a little homier for him. Having a quiet, relaxing space to come home to would go a long way in making him like it here.

Right?

The exposed brick is accented by wood beams across the very tall ceiling and shiny black fixtures around the space. From where I’m standing in the living room, I can see the kitchen, an area with tons of bookshelves and beyond that, I assume, Gray’s bedroom.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I turn away, the memory of the way Gray’s lips moved across mine too easy to recall.

“Gray?” I call out again, but there’s still no answer.

Maybe he already left.

I’m alone in his apartment because this is my job, and I’m supposed to take care of details, not fantasize about my boss. I set my bag down on an oversized cream-colored sofa and walk into the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and find two bottles of water, a carton of milk, and nothing else.

Groceries will be the first thing I take care of. Maybe Poppy can help with ideas, he’s probably on a regimen of some kind.

I glance at the bare shelves inside the fridge as I close it. What has the man been eating?

“Gray?” I head out of the kitchen and move through the open space, where further down, it’s broken up into actual rooms. There’s a very sparse, very clean bathroom to my immediate left, and across from it, what seems to be an empty bedroom.

I take another step and hear a rhythmic sound I can’t quite place. You could keep time to it, but it’s not familiar. A dryer? With shoes in it? I’m not sure.

I gingerly take a few more steps, looking around, following the noise. I poke my head around a corner, and I’m standing in the opening of a fitness room.

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