Chapter 1
Ellie wants to look herself over, straighten herself up, but she can’t. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, since the tall, dark-haired man walked in, his black suit coat slung over his shoulder.
Her eyes scan his crisp, white button-down shirt and settle for a long moment at the top, where two loose buttons expose a patch of well-tanned skin. She imagines what it would feel like to touch his warm, muscular chest just below.
She knows he’s way out of her league, but continues a thorough review of him anyway, exercising an extreme level of scrutiny, studying him for flaws, anything that would bring him down to her level.
But his hair is smooth and black and offsets a pair of brilliant green eyes. His nose is thin, his jaw chiseled, a light stubble grooms his chin. His features are pronounced. And strong. His suit, immaculate. Nothing is out of place.
He walks in her direction, inspecting the newly installed paintings along the corridor walls. They’re more than you’d expect in an average New York City apartment building, but somehow he seems disappointed.
She watches him view each piece— like a gallery— stopping and turning, inspecting each landscape, shaking his head, moving onto the next. But her preoccupation is not with his dismay as much as it is with the curves of his firm and sexy backside. Her eyes hang upon his every move.
Suddenly though, he’s not walking anymore. Something has struck him about a particular frame.
Her eyes dart back up his hips, past his mid-section, to the suit coat now draped over his forearm, then— to her shock— his eyes are locked on hers.
HOLY. CRAP . Warmth floods her face. She jerks her head around toward her apartment door. Did he notice her gawking at him? Did he know it the whole time?
She reaches for the doorknob and tries to twist it, but fails. COME ON! She shakes it again, desperate for a different result.
She raises her hand to cover the bright orange notice on the door— her latest source of embarrassment and self-doubt— but gives up instead, realizing how little the gesture would do for her.
Defeated, she slides her hand along the door frame. Her eyes follow it down. Her head tilts toward the floor. The hallway is devoid of noise, except for the swoosh of the man’s shoes as they glide across the carpet. But that goes silent too, and suddenly, she realizes he’s stopped. Right. Behind. Her.
He’s close enough that his warm breath sends wild sensations across the back of her neck. It’s unexpected, and welcomed by her tense body.
He leans in even closer, and whispers in her ear.
“The best way to get past shame is to not give a fuck.”
Wait. What? She shifts her stance, starts to turn around. Her lips part to speak, to tell him how rude he is, but nothing comes out. Her mind is cloudy—jumbled by his words.
She realizes she’s been given license however, liberated to say whatever she wants. “That’s perfect,” she replies, “I don’t believe I have any fucks left to give.”
His lips curl into a mischievous grin. His eyes grow wide as they roam south of her neck. “Somehow, I don’t believe that,” he says.
ASSHOLE . She plants her index finger on the center of his forehead and pushes it back up. “You know, usually you can tell if someone is honest by the look in their eyes, the expression on their face… not by the size of their chest.”
“Your pendant,” he points and laughs. “Your expression tells me nothing about that.”
Her eyes dart downward. Her face flames red. Between the loose buttons of her shirt, the unusual pendant— a two-and-three-quarter-inch shotgun shell— hangs exposed. She frantically pushes the little red tube back inside and closes her shirt over it.
“So now you know I’ve got demons,” she says without looking up.
He makes no response. Instead, he
Ellie wants to look herself over, straighten herself up, but she can’t. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, since the tall, dark-haired man walked in, his black suit coat slung over his shoulder.
Her eyes scan his crisp, white button-down shirt and settle for a long moment at the top, where two loose buttons expose a patch of well-tanned skin. She imagines what it would feel like to touch his warm, muscular chest just below.
She knows he’s way out of her league, but continues a thorough review of him anyway, exercising an extreme level of scrutiny, studying him for flaws, anything that would bring him down to her level.
But his hair is smooth and black and offsets a pair of brilliant green eyes. His nose is thin, his jaw chiseled, a light stubble grooms his chin. His features are pronounced. And strong. His suit, immaculate. Nothing is out of place.
He walks in her direction, inspecting the newly installed paintings along the corridor walls. They’re more than you’d expect in an average New York City apartment building, but somehow he seems disappointed.
She watches him view each piece— like a gallery— stopping and turning, inspecting each landscape, shaking his head, moving onto the next. But her preoccupation is not with his dismay as much as it is with the curves of his firm and sexy backside. Her eyes hang upon his every move.
Suddenly though, he’s not walking anymore. Something has struck him about a particular frame.
Her eyes dart back up his hips, past his mid-section, to the suit coat now draped over his forearm, then— to her shock— his eyes are locked on hers.
HOLY. CRAP . Warmth floods her face. She jerks her head around toward her apartment door. Did he notice her gawking at him? Did he know it the whole time?
She reaches for the doorknob and tries to twist it, but fails. COME ON! She shakes it again, desperate for a different result.
She raises her hand to cover the bright orange notice on the door— her latest source of embarrassment and self-doubt— but gives up instead, realizing how little the gesture would do for her.
Defeated, she slides her hand along the door frame. Her eyes follow it down. Her head tilts toward the floor. The hallway is devoid of noise, except for the swoosh of the man’s shoes as they glide across the carpet. But that goes silent too, and suddenly, she realizes he’s stopped. Right. Behind. Her.
He’s close enough that his warm breath sends wild sensations across the back of her neck. It’s unexpected, and welcomed by her tense body.
He leans in even closer, and whispers in her ear.
“The best way to get past shame is to not give a fuck.”
Wait. What? She shifts her stance, starts to turn around. Her lips part to speak, to tell him how rude he is, but nothing comes out. Her mind is cloudy—jumbled by his words.
She realizes she’s been given license however, liberated to say whatever she wants. “That’s perfect,” she replies, “I don’t believe I have any fucks left to give.”
His lips curl into a mischievous grin. His eyes grow wide as they roam south of her neck. “Somehow, I don’t believe that,” he says.
ASSHOLE . She plants her index finger on the center of his forehead and pushes it back up. “You know, usually you can tell if someone is honest by the look in their eyes, the expression on their face… not by the size of their chest.”
“Your pendant,” he points and laughs. “Your expression tells me nothing about that.”
Her eyes dart downward. Her face flames red. Between the loose buttons of her shirt, the unusual pendant— a two-and-three-quarter-inch shotgun shell— hangs exposed. She frantically pushes the little red tube back inside and closes her shirt over it.
“So now you know I’ve got demons,” she says without looking up.
He makes no response. Instead, he
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