Chapter 20
I called Chloe from outside the office. "Hey, are you free right now?"
"Of course! What's up? Want to hang out?"
"Can you pick up Amy from daycare? My car's ready. I need to go get it."
"No problem. I'll bring her back to my place."
I ended the call and pulled up the address Adam had sent. 50 Liberty Drive, Penthouse 2201.
I frowned at the screen. That was in the Seaport District. Why the hell would a repair shop deliver my car there?
I checked the time. 5:43. Amy was covered. No rush.
I decided to save the cab fare and take the T.
---
By the time I got off at the World Trade Center stop and walked the rest of the way, it was past 7:00.
The sun hung low over the harbor, casting long shadows across the glass towers. I stopped in front of 50 Liberty and stared up.
All glass. All sleek. All fucking expensive.
This has to be his place.
I pulled out my phone and double-checked the address. Penthouse 2201. Top floor.
I looked around for my car. Nothing.
Maybe the valet parked it. Or maybe the repair shop left it in the building's garage.
I walked up to the entrance and pressed the buzzer for 2201.
The intercom crackled. Then Adam's voice came through, flat and cold. "Come up."
The door clicked open.
I stepped inside.
---
The lobby was spotless. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. A doorman nodded at me as I crossed to the elevator.
I pressed PH2201 and watched the numbers climb.
My stomach twisted tighter with every floor.
Why did he tell me to come here? Where's my car?
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse.
I stepped out.
Adam stood a few feet away, dressed in a blue-gray loungewear set—soft cotton pants and a matching pullover.
He looked… relaxed. Almost lazy.
It made him less cold. Less sharp.
He turned without a word and walked toward the living room.
I blinked. "Wait—where's my car?"
He didn't answer. Just kept walking.
I stood there, confused and irritated. "Adam!"
He disappeared around the corner.
What the hell?
I hesitated, then followed him into the living room.
The space was massive. Exposed concrete ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the harbor and the city skyline. Minimalist furniture—gray sectional, black coffee table, a single piece of abstract art on the wall.
Cold. Precise. Just like him.
I stood near the couch, unsure what to do. He'd brought me here but wouldn't tell me why.
Fine. I'll wait.
I sat down on the edge of the sectional and crossed my arms.
---
Twenty minutes passed.
I heard footsteps on the stairs.
I looked up.
Adam appeared on the landing, wearing a white bathrobe. Loosely tied. His hair was wet, water dripping down his neck and disappearing into the collar.
The robe ended just above his knees, exposing strong, defined calves.
My breath caught.
He walked down the stairs slowly.
I couldn't look away.
Water slid down the side of his face, along his jawline, pooling at the base of his throat before slipping lower, into the hollow of his collarbone.
Fuck.
My face burned.
I forced my eyes up to his face.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked at me. "What?"
I swallowed. "You—why did you take a shower?"
He tilted his head slightly. "I was going to shower anyway. You showed up. I let you in first."
My face got hotter. "You could've waited."
"I was uncomfortable. Why would I wait?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He walked closer. Stopped right in front of me.
The scent of clean soap and something faintly citrus drifted toward me. My pulse jumped.
He reached down and grabbed my chin, tilting my face up toward his.
"Maya." His voice was low. Almost mocking. "You don't think I want to sleep with you, do you?"
My eyes widened. "I—no!"
"Good." He let go and straightened. "Because you're completely average. I'm not interested."
I stared at him.
Average?
Heat rushed through me—anger this time, not embarrassment.
I shot to my feet. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
I glared at him. Asshole.
He had no right to say that. Not when he used to spend five nights a week in my bed. Not when he used to look at me like I was the only person in the room.
But I couldn't say any of that.
So I shoved the memory down and crossed my arms. "Where's my car?"
He walked past me toward the kitchen. Grabbed a glass from the cabinet. Filled it with water.
I watched his throat work as he drank. The bathrobe shifted, exposing more of his chest.
Stop staring.
I turned my head sharply and focused on the window.
He set the glass down. "Your car?"
"Yes. My car. You said it was ready."
"I didn't."
I whipped around. "What?"
"The repair shop hasn't finished."
"Then why did you tell me to come here?"
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Why didn't you answer my calls?"
I froze. "What calls?"
"My new number. I called you last Sunday. You ignored me."
"I didn't see them."
"Bullshit."