Page 11 of Holden

And yet despite all I have accomplished, there are gaps. Pieces of my past that are incomplete and affect my future. Can it be that Holden is the only one with the power to make me whole?

God, I hope not.

I text: How do I prove myself?

His response is immediate: Come to my apartment right now, and do one act of my choosing for free.

My breath hitches. I curl into the mattress, wrapping myself in blankets, a feeble attempt to calm the millions of goosebumps that stand erect on my cool skin. I read the message again, processing each word, looking for hidden meanings.

There’s none. Holden’s command is crystal clear.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, stand, and carry my phone to the window. Outside, the skyscrapers in New York City’s financial district twinkle under a jet-black sky. I imagine Holden in one of them, staring out across the city, waiting for my response, thinking of me…and my pulse thrums with fresh desire.

I text: It’s 2:00 in the morning.

A beat of silence stretches for an eternity and I worry I may have pissed him off. After begging for a second chance, perhaps my hesitation isn’t wise. I appear wishy-washy. Indecisive.

I think back to my conversation with Lindsay, resisting the temptation to burst through her bedroom door with questions and a plea for advice. There’s no need. I already know what she’ll say.

Resigning to the inevitable, I respond: Okay. Send me your address, I’ll be there a soon as I can.

I can almost see his wolfish grin through the phone. He answers with the name of his building, followed by his suite number—the penthouse, of course—and one last important instruction: Dress in a short skirt, no panties or bra, and be here within the hour. Don’t be late.

Chapter 7

The Uber dumps me in front of Holden’s building. I step out of the car, and onto the smooth asphalt, staring up at the giant revolving door framed in gold. Glenwood Suites is etched into the glass. My gaze follows the length of the towering skyscraper, until the top apartments almost disappear into the sky.

Holden is somewhere up there, waiting for me.

I cross my arms over my chest, self-conscious and slightly chilled without a bra. My taut nipples are aching as I head into the luxurious lobby. Burgundy leather furniture sits on cream-colored carpet. Oversized vases filled with flowers create spots of color on antique side tables. A bank of overhead lights guides me to the elevator, where my nervous reflection shimmers in the tinted glass doors.

With a trembling hand, I press the “up” button.

The elevator whirs and then opens, revealing a spacious carriage surrounded in mirrors. I step inside, eyes cast downward, and wait for the doors to close behind. The elevator makes no additional stops as it climbs the seventy stories to the top floor.

My stomach twists into knots.

I grip the brass railing and close my eyes, holding my breath until a soft ping lets me know we’re there. The doors swoosh open without prompt. I hesitate a second too long, and strong hand lodges between the wall and the elevator door before it closes.

Holden.

“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, Miss Faber?”

He leans against the door frame, holding the elevator open, while I gawk at his physique. Loose fitting jeans hang low on his hips. He’s shirtless, revealing the eight pack of abdominal muscles I dreamed about. I fight the urge to pinch myself to make sure this isn’t just an extension of that vivid fantasy from before.

“I’ve got two minutes to spare,” I say, with a slight stutter.

He glances at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

“Fine, but I’m on time.”

He grins in a way that makes my knees buckle. Collecting my nerves, I follow him through the short hallway to his suite. Soft music filters through the slightly open door. I peer inside, unprepared for the elegance that greets me.

At the far end of the expansive room, an elaborate chandelier hangs over a dining room table, back-dropped by several skyscrapers and tall buildings out the enormous window. The moon hangs high in the horizon, a glowing orb of magical beauty. Leather chairs surround the table. Behind it, pillows dot a bank of bench seating. The space is prime for entertaining, but by the looks of things, few people are invited.

To my right, white leather sofas form a generous “L” shape in the middle of the open living room. A model airplane—seven feet long at least—perches atop a short column, giving it the illusion that it’s flying toward the endless city sky.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, voice betraying my clear awe. “Have you lived here long?”