Page 12 of His Surrender

You can do this, Aubrey. It’s just an interview. You’re not fifteen anymore.

And Dean Ledger is definitely not the center of your teenage fantasies.

I square my shoulders and step inside.

After all … he’s only New York City’s most eligible bachelor.

No pressure.

The concierge ushers me to a private elevator with gold doors in the corner of the room. I walk inside and notice the only button has a capital P.

Right, of course he has the penthouse.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my black pants as the elevator slows to a stop before the doors slide open.

I take one confident step forward … and immediately stop.

“Oh.”

There’s no hallway. No door with an apartment number.

Nope, I’ve just walked straight into Dean Ledger’s penthouse.

My eyes dart around the expansive foyer, taking in the polished hardwood floors, the breathtaking view of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and then … a baby swing with a Pack ’n Play next to it.

Tiny pink socks lie abandoned beside a cream-colored couch.

The place is every bit as luxurious as I imagined, yet somehow … lived in.

“Aubrey?” a man’s voice calls from farther into the room.

I take several steps toward the familiar voice until the entire family room comes into view.

“Mr. Ledger,” I reply softly.

Mr. Ledger smiles warmly as he walks over, pulling me into a quick hug before I can overthink it.

His warm eyes hold mine. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” I say through a small smile.

“I appreciate you coming down to meet Dean.”

“I’m happy to.”

Before either of us can say another word, a bedroom door farther down the hall opens.

“I finally got—” The rest of Dean’s sentence dies the second he sees me.

So does my ability to form coherent thoughts.

He’s barefoot while gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. He’s holding a navy T-shirt in one hand while the other absent-mindedly rubs the back of his neck.

His chest is broad, lean muscle stretching across shoulders that somehow seem even wider than I remember. He seems so … domestic, standing in front of me in just sweatpants.

My fifteen-year-old self would’ve passed out.

Twenty-two-year-old me isn’t doing much better.