Unintentionally, I roll my eyes, finding exactly what I knew I would before I close my laptop and toss it back on the couch.
Standing, I whip my curls into a quick bun, throw on an oversized sweatshirt, and slip into my Air Force Ones. Before I hit the door, I grab a bag of dog treats from the console table and take a quick glance in the mirror.
I look like a hot mess.
My sweatpants are stained, the fabric so thin from being overly worn, and my hair is untamable. I don’t have a touch of makeup on, and there’s a good chance there’s dried mustard on my chin from my hot dog earlier. But these pups don’t care, and neither do I.
Grabbing my phone, purse, and keys, I leave the apartment and slip into the elevator.
I’m excited to see all my furry friends who I haven’t seen for days at this point. And that’s the thing with some of these older dogs—you don’t know how much time you’ll get with them. You just have the give them as much love as you can because you don’t know how much longer they have on Earth.
I ride the elevator alone down to the lobby floor as the low hum of violin strings pours out from the speakers and fills the metal box. As I said, my brother’s apartment is bougie as hell, and only the extremely wealthy live here. I’m sure the kind doorman has a mini heart attack anytime he sees me enter or exit wearing my baggy flannels, oversized Tshirts, and dirty sneakers. Though, he’s always polite and never says a word.
The elevator stops on the main floor, and as soon as the doors open, I step out, walking smack dab into something solid.
“Jesus,” someone says, holding me steady with a heavy arm. “You good?”
My head feels a little wobbly from vibrating off a chest of pure muscle, but I can see perfectly clear.
My eyes trail the stranger’s body, noting the contrast between my dirty sneakers and his shiny dress shoes. His legs are thick, but his suit pants are perfectly tailored to fit his strong thighs. His crisp white shirt is practically see-through, showcasing his tatted skin, and when my gaze falls on the thin gold chain around his neck, I realize who I ran into.
My body, thanks to the warmth flowing through me from the unexpected contact, knows too.
I lift my eyes slightly higher, hazel irises staring back at me as the most mischievous grin slides up his lips.
“Stevie,” Zanders says. “You following me?”
8
ZANDERS
“Stevie,” I begin. “You following me?”
Her eyes trail down my body, checking me out as I do the same to her.
Her chestnut curls are plopped on top of her head in a wild mess, and her clothes are drowning her figure. Dark lashes frame her blue-green eyes, and her face doesn’t show a stitch of makeup, minus…is that mustard on her chin?
She’s only inches from me, right where she barreled into my chest, my hold keeping her steady. Without thinking, I use the pad of my thumb to softly wipe the yellow from her face. As I do, her mouth falls open, and her eyes dart to mine, holding my stare for a moment.
Stevie clears her throat and takes a step back, away from me.
“Seems like you’re following me,” she retorts, keeping her eyes anywhere but on me as she crosses her arms over her chest.
“How am I following you?” I mirror her stubborn actions, crossing my arms in the same manner. “My best friends live here.”
Finally, her eyes dart to mine, cocking her head in confusion.
“Eli Maddison,” I explain. “His family lives in this building. Penthouse floor. But their elevator is being worked on.” I motion across the lobby to the private elevator for the Maddisons’ level. The only one I use to avoid run-ins like this.
Realization covers Stevie’s face. “His wife has dark red hair?”
Logan’s signature color. “Logan. Yeah.”
Stevie nods as if all the puzzle pieces are being put together for her.
“So, clearly, you’re following me.”
She scoffs. “I live here. If anyone is being a stalker, it certainly isn’t me.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” I brush her off, not believing her. Not to sound like a rich asshole, but this building, as well as mine across the street, cost an arm and a leg to own. She’s a flight attendant. I highly doubt she makes enough to live here.
“Why the hell do you keep calling me ‘sweetheart?’”
An evil laugh slips from my lips. I thought she was smarter than that. “You don’t get it?”
“Get what?”
“My nickname for you. It’s ironic. I’m not sure you have a sweet bone in your body, sweetheart.”