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“No,” I say. My hand goes to the door. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Why?” His face tightens, again a man not used to being told no.
“Thanks again for the pregnancy—purchase.” I offer a smile as I close the door, memorizing the lines of his extraordinary face as I do. “Good night.”
The door closes with a click. I lock the deadbolt. Ending the chapter of my life where I trust men.
CHAPTER 2
Rockwell
I’m standing at the window of my three-story row home as I overlook the neatly manicured gardens of the Village. I’ve lived here, single, for three years now, never bringing so much as a fling back to my place.
Didn’t want to taint my sacred space with pleasure when I need to stay focused on my work.
I sip whiskey, ice clinking the sides of my glass as I stare out into the dark night.
“I can’t stop thinking about her.”
The girl at the store. Her big brown eyes looking up at me, filled with worry and fear as she handed over that test for me to buy.
And now, she’s turned down my offer. I watch as the last light in a neighboring window goes out, leaving me even more alone with my thoughts and a sense of longing I can’t quite shake.
There’s something about her, about the vulnerability in her eyes that draws me in like a moth to a flame. I take another sip of whiskey, the burn of the alcohol doing little to ease the ache in my chest. Maybe it’s foolish of me to feel this way about a stranger, but there’s an undeniable pull between us, a connection that I can’t ignore.
Claudia says I have a savior complex.
As I stand there, lost in contemplation, a sudden noise startles me from my thoughts. It sounds like someone moving downstairs. My senses go on high alert as I quietly make my way down the stairs, heart pounding in my chest.
We’re safe here, literally living in a hidden town, armed with brownstone shops that line the city streets. Not to mention the military-grade security that protects these walls. It’s got to be a family member, but still, unannounced visitors always put me on edge.
Being a Bachman, I’ve found it prudent to be cautious.
I reach the first floor, the sound now coming from the kitchen. Instantly, I relax. Only one other person in this world has a fingerprint on my pad that unlocks my door.
A familiar voice eases my nerves.
“Nothing in this fridge but beer and wine. I swear if a woman lived like this, she’d look like a crumpled paper bag. How men get more good-looking with age, especially on a steak and beer diet, I’ll never know. And there’s not even steak on these shelves this week!”
Claudia is a stunning woman with a huge heart and habit of talking out loud to herself, especially when she’s annoyed—and her said annoyance is usually directed toward me.
As per usual.
I think it started when she was born two minutes behind me, but still tells everyone she’s my older sister.
“Hey, Claude,” I greet her, headed over to the bar cart in the corner for a refill of Pappy Van Winkle Whiskey, the bottle aged ten years giving it the nickname Old Rip Van Winkle. Following my evening regime, I fill the glass to the first of the diamonds in the cut crystal, turning to Claudia to ask, “Want a drink?”
Unloading the last of her groceries, halibut and broccoli I’ll probably give to my housekeeper to take home for her dinner tomorrow, among other items my sister has declared to be ‘superfoods’ to keep me in tiptop shape, she gives me an exasperated sigh. “No, thanks, I’m on a juice cleanse. Nothing but microgreens and probiotics for me.”
“Sounds awful. Why do you do that to yourself?”
“Skin problems. You know I’ve got that beauty charity event in two weeks. Here I am, forty years young and I’m battling an acne breakout of a sixteen-year-old!” She marches over to me, pointing to the world’s smallest zit on her chin, caked in makeup. “See!”
“Can’t you just get a facial at the spa?”
“I’ve already booked the full day skin enhancement package with microdermabrasion—something your dignified face knows nothing about.”
I give a shrug. “Have some wine. I had your favorite delivered. It’s in the fridge.”
