Undeniable Bachelor (Bachelor Tower Series Book 3) Read online

  Jana told me I can ask her anything. No question is too private or too trivial. She’s like having a sister, but one I have to pay to speak to. Most of my friends back home are men. I imagine the shocked looks they would have given me if I had ever broached the subject of waxing with them. I doubt they are aware I even have a vagina let alone that I want to cover it with hot wax and paper and have some lovely woman yank the hair off me.

  My smile deepens. That topic might have gotten me a third plaque at Annie’s Seaside Shack.

  Mr. Boston frowns again then looks away.

  I want to tell him to lighten up. How bad could his life be? He’s gorgeous and looks like he’s gainfully employed. My present state lends me a certain freedom. Nothing I could do would impress the man, so I actually could say what I’m thinking. It’s an intriguing thought that flies out of my head when the elevator comes to a grinding, rattling stop.

  The lights flicker, and then go out completely.

  “That’s not good.” My shaky voice is small and unfamiliar to me. Did I mention I don’t like small dark places? I haven’t spent enough time in elevators to have feelings one way or another about them, but I suddenly understand everyone who has ever said they hate them. Fear tightens my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

  I refuse to die this way.

  Die.

  I reach out and clutch a suited forearm in the darkness, wishing fate had delivered a different companion for this experience. Something tells me Mr. Boston doesn’t know how to fix an elevator. He also doesn’t seem the kind to hand over a paper bag for me to breathe deeply into.

  “It’s an old building. I’m sure it’s nothing.” That’s his best shot at comforting me.

  “Nothing.” I release his arm because he’s not panicking so I tell myself I shouldn’t be.

  He illuminates the front wall of the elevator with the light from his phone. “And there is always an emergency call button.”

  I swallow hard, clasping my now sweaty hands together. “Of course.”

  He hits the button once, then again, and swears.

  I take a deep breath. He has a phone. We’re good.

  I bet this stuff happens all the time in the city. More people probably die crossing the streets than plummeting down elevator shafts. People in the city embrace danger. I’ve seen them barely look up from their phones while walking. I’ll be that way soon, I’m sure. Something like this won’t even faze me.

  My stomach twists painfully. Plummeting is my least favorite word.

  Mr. Boston swears again. “I’ve got no service in here. How about you?”

  I pat my pocket like it might have miraculously reappeared. “No phone.”

  “Of course,” he replied, his sarcasm grating on me.

  “I have a phone, just not with me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He holds his up higher as though it might suddenly get service.

  What he means is I don’t matter, and unlike a few minutes earlier, this time I’m offended. Not because he’s not attracted to me, but because I do matter. My life might not look like much from the outside, but I sure as hell don’t want it to end like this. “It does matter, actually. Someone snatched my purse when I got off the bus.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says in an indifferent tone.

  What did I expect? I built Mr. Boston up in my imagination, but the truth is more likely he’s afraid being stuck in an elevator with me will make him late for a manicure. He has no idea what it means to sacrifice. To put your life on hold for something greater than your own wants and desires.

  In the dim light of his phone, he leans against the wall and sighs.

  I glare at him in the darkness.

  The silence drags on until it’s uncomfortable. Shouldn’t he be trying to make me feel more at ease? Even Jody, my old shift manager at the fishery, would have tried to make me laugh to keep my mind off our impending doom—and no one has ever accused him of being a nice person.

  I’ve never been afraid to do for myself, so I say, “My name is Savannah Barre.”

  He takes so long to answer that for a moment I think he won’t. “Brice.”

  I press on. “Do you work here?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Another long awkward silence.

  I clear my throat. Work with me, buddy. You could have been stuck with a crier. “I didn’t expect the building to be so empty.”

  “Holiday weekend. Security works through it, though. They might be doing their rounds. I don’t imagine we’ll be stuck in here for long.”

  Holiday? I vaguely remember Jana saying that after meeting quickly I’d have a few days to settle in before we did anything official. If I hadn’t lost my purse, I would have already met her and would probably be in my apartment, soaking in a bubble bath, sipping from a glass of champagne, planning my first shopping spree. All of her contact information, though, was on my phone . . . in my purse . . . along with my credit cards and cash. I shake my head. Nothing good comes from beating oneself up over things that can’t be changed. Jana didn’t sound like someone who sprinted out of her office early. She’d be there. All I need is a computer and a phone. Nothing that had happened was irreparable. I just have to live long enough to fix it. To fill the silence, I remark, “You’re here late.”

  “I do a lot of international business.”

  I won’t be changing his name to Mr. Personality anytime soon. Still, talking is better than thinking about how long it might take security to notice that the elevator is stuck. Or what we’d have to resort to as far as relieving ourselves if that didn’t happen for a long time. Oh, shit, now I have to pee. “I’ve never been to Boston before. I’m from Maine.”

  “Welcome to Boston,” he says in a dry tone.

  That’s it. I’ve had enough. “You don’t have to be a dick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t break the elevator. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t want to be here any more than you do, but I also don’t want to freak out and piss myself, and talking calms me down. So, can you pretend you have a personality? If that’s not too much trouble.”

  Even in the dim lighting his gaze is intense. “Please don’t piss yourself.” He says it as if he’s serious, but there’s a light in his eyes that suggests he might not be.

  I relax a little. Sometimes all people need is a little nudge to be nice.

  “Look at you—almost making a joke.”

  He gives me a look that might mean he didn’t appreciate mine, but I’m in survival mode so I’ll worry about his feelings later. Or I won’t.

  “What are you doing in the building?” he asks as if it’s his building and I’ve snuck in. It’s far more of an accusation than a question.

  I’m tempted to tell him I came in to get out of the cold. Like the woman on the street who gave me cash, he’s probably thinking I have nothing. I feel self-righteous for every person who has actually been in that situation. Who is he to look down his perfectly sculpted nose at anyone? “I have an appointment.” I do my best to mimic his haughty tone.

  He rubs a hand over his forehead. “An appointment? With whom?”

  Oh, he’s one of those whom people. I roll my eyes. There’s no way someone like him would understand what I’m doing in Boston. My reasons wouldn’t make any sense to him “All that matters is that I’m late for it, and I wasn’t able to call to tell her I would be. I chased the guy who took my purse then didn’t know where I was. Who designed the street layout in Boston? A toddler with a crayon? And why does everyone give directions by mentioning landmarks that used to be here? Just tell me left or right. Is that too much to ask? And the police station was a nightmare. It took forever to make the police report. I should have canceled my credits cards while I was there but I had a feeling if I stayed there much longer they might not let me leave.”

  His nod of agreement is a little insulting. I was joking—kind of. A person can’t actually get arrested for being robbed and looking like
I do—can they?

  “Your purse was stolen?” he asks as if I hadn’t already said it. He’s clearly not hanging on my every word.

  “Yes, it was stolen.”

  “You shouldn’t have chased the thief. He might have hurt you.”

  “One of us would have been in pain, anyway. He’s lucky I didn’t catch him.” I mock a karate chop and make a hi-ya noise.

  Mr. Boston pinches the bridge of his nose. Oh, hang on, he almost smiles. I know that look. I didn’t get my funniest person plaque for nothing. He’s finally getting my jokes.

  “Thankfully, I had a few dollars on me. I took a cab part of the way, and then walked the rest. I’m here, though, so the worst of it is over. As long as the person I’m meeting is still in her office, I’m golden.”

  “Who is this person you’re meeting?”

  “You almost sound like you care.”

  “The alternative is not conversing, and you’ve already warned me about the possible consequence to that. We don’t need a puddle.”

  I smile. He’s actually pretty funny. I forgive him for not being an electrician or something useful. “Her name is Jana Monroe. Since she knew I was coming, I’m ninety-nine percent . . . okay, seventy-five percent sure she wouldn’t leave until she heard from me. She knows I’ve never been to Boston before.”

  “Why does it sound like you don’t really know this woman?” The way his eyebrow is arching tells me he’s, at a minimum, intrigued.

  “I do know her. We swapped several emails and we talked on the phone just last week. I’m positive she’ll be here.” I nod, trying to convince myself. “No one wants to lose a client, right?”

  “A client?”

  Don’t even go there, buddy. You don’t know me. I’m a capable woman who just happens to be without some of her resources right now.

  The elevator rattles and the lights flicker. I swallow a scream. Breathe.

  “We’re okay. They’re probably working on it.” The light on his phone goes out. “Fuck. My battery’s dead.”

  It’s dark.

  I’m quietly hyperventilating.

  I reach out, grab his arm again, and joke, “Looks like you’re no better prepared than I am.”

  “Evidently,” he said dryly, but he puts his hand over mine. It’s warm and strong, and I don’t care if he’s only being kind to me because he doesn’t want me to soil myself; I’m grateful he’s here.

  “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I would let go of you, but my hand literally won’t let me.”

  “It’s fine. I’m actually impressed. I figured you’d be screaming by now.”

  “Oh, I am—on the inside.”

  The elevator rumbles, lifts, then falls a few feet. My fingers dig deeper into his arm. Holy shit. This is definitely how I’m going to die.

  The elevator drops again. We both stumble a little then brace ourselves. I’m done with this. I don’t care what the man beside me thinks, I take the universe head-on and demand, “Stop it right now. I refuse to die a virgin. Do you hear me? Refuse.”

  Of course the lights choose that moment to come back on. I’m clinging to the arm of Adonis and his eyebrows are up near his hairline, shocked by my proclamation. I release his arm.

  He flattens his tie and looks away as if I hadn’t said anything.

  “Uh”—I catch my breath—“I meant I don’t want to die this version of myself.” My cheeks blaze with embarrassment. That statement isn’t actually a lie either, but he’s onto me. “It needed to be said. This day has been a nightmare. First the bus broke down. Then my bag was stolen. Now an elevator is trying to kill me. Do you think I don’t see what the universe is doing? It’s testing me. That’s why you’re here. You’re the biggest test of all. You think I don’t know what you think of me? But what you and the universe don’t get is that I don’t cower. I know it’s not going to be easy and people will judge me every step of the way, but I’m here, and I’m not the type to turn and run when things get tough. Bring it on. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The elevator roars back to life and starts climbing toward the top floor.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not getting off this thing when it stops. I’m determined, but I’m not stupid.” I step toward the door, ready to leap when it opens.

  “Looks like it’s going to my floor. Thirty.”

  “Then I’ll take the stairs down from there,” I mumble. Of course we’re going to his floor. Things probably always turn out perfectly for this guy.

  “You’re going to walk down fifteen flights?”

  “I sure as hell am not riding back down in this.” The doors open and I step out.

  “Because you refuse to die . . . this version of yourself.”

  What does it matter what he knows or thinks? This is where we part ways. “Exactly. Now excuse me, I have a meeting to make.”

  “With a woman who may no longer be there?”

  I square my shoulders and glare up at him. “Thank you for all of your help and positive energy.” This time I’m the one who is sarcastic. “You should consider a career in social work. Or as a motivational speaker. You’re a great comfort.”

  He doesn’t look happy, but he didn’t look happy before the elevator fiasco, so I’m leaving him as I found him. “Do you know anyone else in the city?”

  “You.”

  He makes a grumbling sound deep in his chest, and I lose patience. I don’t need him. Without another word I charge toward the stairwell.

  He doesn’t call after me, but I don’t expect him to. Some books are exactly what their covers project.

  As I swing the stair door open, I see something shimmering on the top step. It’s a small diamond earring. Simple. Beautiful. I pick it up and place it on the sill of the window. Someone will be missing it.

  I take a few steps down, then turn and see the earring shining on the sill. Whoever lost that earring is probably also having a horrible day. Bad things happen to good people. The trick is to not let it beat you.

  I could give up now and ask Jana to help me get back home, but I won’t. Universe, you like signs? Well, let that be one for you. I just gave some person a better chance of finding what they lost. I believe in second chances and happy endings. I smile at the term happy ending. Hopefully my humor evolves too.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Brice

  I haven’t gotten a fucking thing done since I stepped into my office. I have calls to make. Emails to answer. My computer is on. My email is open. Every time I try to read one of my messages my mind returns to the woman whose scent lingers on the arm of my jacket—and not in a pleasant way.

  I breathe in a hint of—rotten fish? It’s a guess. It’s not a smell I’m familiar with. I’ll be tipping the dry cleaner extra for this suit.

  Stopped elevators and women are normally a good mix. There’s nothing like hitting the stop button, feeling a woman’s hands tearing at my clothes, hearing her beg for more as she straddles me, then driving into her until the elevator sways with us. The danger of being caught. The scandal for a man in my position only heightens the passion.

  It’s not something I’ve done in Boston because unlike in my country, every corner of the United States is under some kind of surveillance. The land of the free? I’d say it’s more the land of the recorded.

  But I’m not here to judge; I’m here to work.

  Although I never thought I would, I’m finally grateful for my father’s decision to keep our family out of the global press. My mother’s obsession with American culture is also proving to be an asset. My lack of accent is due to her belief that the only good tutor is one who attended Harvard. The less anyone knows about who I am, the longer I’ll have the advantage.

  I rub my temples and attempt to read another email, but an image of the woman from the elevator distracts me. Savannah from Maine. I know nothing about the state beyond it being remote, and apparently having an unappealing smell. And maybe women who are prone to insanity.

  If her clothing was a
nything to go by, she didn’t have two pennies to rub together. I groan as I picture her chasing a thief down. Her life wasn’t worth . . . what could she possibly even have had in her purse?

  I should have given her a few bills to get her by. That would have been the right thing to do. But she ran off. Too proud to heed my warnings.

  Did she even know anyone in the building or was that just a story to come inside to warm up? The mystery was killing my concentration.

  And if she really is so bad off, why did she look so damn happy?

  “I refuse to die a virgin . . .” Her declaration echoes in my head, unsettling and exciting at the same time. As a rule, I don’t fuck virgins, and although some men might see her state of desperation as an opportunity, I’m not that man.

  So why can’t I stop thinking about her?

  Guilt?

  I wish it were that simple.

  First, that fucking smile haunts me. It was genuine and made me curious about what had her so happy.

  There were a few times I was lost in those blue eyes of hers. So bold. So determined. No woman has ever looked at me the way she did—as if I weren’t quite living up to her expectation of me. Probably because most women in my country know my background. Savannah saw me as just a man in an elevator who wasn’t really impressing her.

  God, I sound full of myself, but I can’t deny that, along with responsibility, being a royal comes with certain perks. I’m used to women being grateful because I show up.

  “You don’t have to be a dick.” I smile as I remember her reprimand. Brave. What brought such a spunky woman to her current state?

  No one has ever spoken to me the way she did.

  And I have to admit I liked it.

  To her, I was simply another a man.

  I shake my head. I don’t want the distraction of her, but I’m doing a terrible job of managing that.

  Who is Jana Monroe and what kind of promises did she use to lure Savannah to the city? How does she expect Savannah to pay for those services? I don’t like any of the possibilities that come to mind.

  Not a single damn one of them.

  At the risk of sounding old-fashioned, I am tempted to look up this Jana Monroe’s number and warn her that Savannah is under my protection.