Look At Me

I would’ve finished the renovations earlier if I’d known, he mused, grinning. And maybe added more windows. He was already regretting only having one on the second floor facing the alley.

The light turned green and he gunned his car, beating the BMW in the lane next to him as he roared down the street.

He thought about her cracked phone and frowned. He made a mental note: he’d grab one of the many smartphones they kept at the office to hand out to new Realtors. It would be easy enough to replace, and besides, he was just being neighborly. He imagined what she’d do when she saw the new phone. Would her face light up with delight?

Then, almost instantly, his excitement faded a tad. He’d wondered, briefly, if it had all been an act. Most women saw the money before they saw him. He worked hard on his body, but he’d begun to think that didn’t matter in the least. Hell, if some woman wanted him for his abs it would be a welcome change of pace. Most women saw the Maserati and Rolex, and then didn’t care what he looked like. Jackson shook his head. It was why he’d all but given up hope on finding someone who actually cared about him. His last relationship had been a disaster from the get-go: she’d been a social climber disguised as a bartender—Laurie, a woman he’d caught in his bathroom, legs up on the bathroom counter, as she tried to tip the contents of a used condom inside her to impregnate herself. It was a calculated move to get child support, or 20 percent of his gross income per year until the baby turned eighteen.

Every time Jackson thought he’d become as cynical as you could be about women, he managed to find a new level. The experience had been enough to make him want to never date again. Lately, Jackson had been relying on old friends-with-benefits relationships, the kind that came with no strings, no commitments. Women who liked nice meals out, the occasional gift, and didn’t mind that Jackson would disappear for months at a time. Having money wasn’t all bad.

He’d been telling himself for years that this was exactly what he wanted: a rotation of gorgeous and willing women. Mostly, this worked just fine, until he spent Thanksgiving with his cousin and his wife and kids in the burbs and wondered what it would be like to have a family of his own: a house full of love and laughter and a little bit of chaos. It was really why Laurie’s antics had hurt him so much. He worried that he’d never find genuine love, a woman who could see beyond the money and could love the man beneath.

He steered his car to the office bearing his name—Drake Properties—and pulled into the underground parking beneath the sleek skyscraper that housed his office in the Gold Coast near downtown Chicago, aptly named for its stunning multimillion-dollar condos and its proximity to the Magnificent Mile, home to the swankiest stores in the city. He was happy to see that most of the spaces dedicated to his office were empty. That was a good thing. That meant Realtors were out doing their jobs. After all, you couldn’t sell property from inside an air-conditioned office. He headed to the elevator, texting his assistant to let him know he’d be arriving soon. In seconds he was inside the lobby of the building, which they shared with a few other businesses. He waved at the security guard up front and then headed to the bank of elevators that would take him to the top floor.

The elevator door barely opened before his assistant, Hailey, greeted him with a piping-hot cappuccino, foamed up just the way he liked it, an elaborate swirled pattern down the center.

“Good morning, sir,” Hailey said, beaming her million-dollar smile as she handed him the perfectly foamed cappuccino. Blond perfection in a steel-gray pencil skirt and blouse, Hailey was all business, just the way he liked it. Clients were stunned by her beauty, but he loved the fact that she never missed the smallest detail.

“Here are the dailies,” she said, handing him a folder with the highlights of the day as well, including the brewing deals in the office. “And the Housing Network called again. They wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to their show.” Hailey paused at his door, waiting for his answer.

Jackson shook his head. “Don’t have time for reality TV discussions this week,” he said, even though he knew HN wouldn’t give up. They’d been hounding him for months to come do a guest spot on their show that put experts in touch with amateur home flippers. While the possibility was intriguing, Jackson had his hands full with current projects, and fame had never really interested him much.

“Thank you, Hailey.”

“Yes, sir,” Hailey said. “Oh, one more thing. Mr. Roberts is waiting for you. In the lobby.”

“Why?” Jackson frowned. Roberts was his major competition in Chicago, and the only other developer who flipped buildings as fast as Jackson did. But while Jackson believed in revamping the community and trying to keep housing reasonably affordable, caring about the city as a whole, Roberts was a typical slumlord: he’d been born wealthy, a trust fund baby who had gotten richer on the backs of the poor. He had a vast holding of decrepit properties on the South Side. The two never saw eye to eye on anything. So why was he waiting for a meeting?

“He would only tell me that you’d want to hear his proposition.”

“I’m not interested in any deal that man offers.” Jackson took a sip of his cappuccino and then headed into his spacious corner office, made almost completely of glass. His sleek glass-legged desk waited for him, as did his new laptop. From his vantage point, he could see Lake Michigan, dotted with small white sailboats, the beaches nearby filled with sunbathers, even on a weekday.

Hailey barely hid a smile. “That’s what I figured. Shall I tell him to leave?”

“No need, Miss Hailey,” came a baritone from Jackson’s office door. The two turned to see Kent Roberts standing there. Jackson frowned. He glanced at the tall, fit, dark-haired real estate baron hanging in his office door and hated the look of him: the preppy blue blazer, crisp khakis, expensive loafers and gleaming designer aviators perched on top of his wavy dark hair. His preppy, too-buttoned-up style rubbed Jackson the wrong way. It was as if he’d never grown out of the exclusive prep school uniform look. Then again, he probably went to boarding schools as a kid, so maybe he didn’t know how else to dress.

Jackson was a man who liked to get his hands dirty, who would be just as likely to pick up a hammer on a construction site as blueprints. Kent, however, had delicate, manicured hands that had never seen a day’s hard work in his whole life. The two were polar opposites.

“Sir?” Hailey asked, her single word loaded with meaning.

“It’s all right, Hailey. I’ll handle this.”

With a swift nod, she backed out of his office, leaving him and Roberts alone.

Jackson ran a hand over his goatee, which was quickly on the border of turning into a full-fledged beard. He took smug satisfaction in Kent’s baby-faced chin. The man couldn’t grow anything, he was pretty sure. Jackson sneezed and had a moustache.

“What can I do for you?” Jackson braced himself. He’d learned long ago not to underestimate his adversary. He might look like he never got his hands dirty, but he wasn’t afraid to stab anybody in the back.

“It’s what I can do for you, friend.” Kent smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I heard you moved into your house on MacKenzie. We’re neighbors.”

“Neighbors?” Jackson asked stiffly.

“Well, I just bought the property next door.”

Jackson frowned. How did he not know the building was for sale? He would’ve scooped it up, if only to protect his property values. Kent grinned, knowing he’d won that small victory.

“Which one?” Jackson asked.

“1209.”

That was when Jackson realized it was Chloe’s building, his sexy new neighbor. Now it really didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like the idea of Chloe having a new slumlord owning her lease, a man who’d no doubt raise her rent but then refuse to fix anything. He might not know Chloe well, but what he did know he liked, and besides, no one deserved that.

“What do you plan to do with it?” Jackson asked.

Kent grinned even bigger. “Why, sell it to you, of course.”

Now Jackson was on full alert. Kent was not the kind of man to ever do him any favors. “Why?”

“Because I know you’ll make me the best offer. You’ve got all that new money lying around.” He tapped Jackson’s desk to make sure he hadn’t missed the dig. “I’m sure you can afford it. Unless...you’d rather save your money for NASCAR, or whatever it is you like.”

Kent always made a point of referencing the fact that Jackson came from humble beginnings. Kent had inherited his wealth. Never really worked a day in his life. Jackson’s father worked as a carpenter. He just happened to have a heart attack on the job when he was near retirement, and that gave Jackson the ability to buy his first office and flip it. Sure, they’d both inherited money, but Jackson’s inheritance came with much fewer zeros.

“I earned my money,” he said. “I’m not embarrassed about that.”

Kent frowned. “Well, like I said, I think you should think long and hard about making me a good offer.” Jackson suddenly felt that if he didn’t buy the building, Kent might turn it into something terrible, like a truck stop in the middle of the city. Or a strip club. Something that would make living next door impossible. “How about I have my people get in touch with your people... I just know we can make a deal.”

Kent stood, arms crossed, a fixed grin on his face that said he was enjoying this little meeting a little too much. Kent loved lording this over Jackson. He had no doubt the developer would insist on the most unreasonable price for the building, just so Jackson would keep it out of his hands. Honestly, it was lazy and stalkerish of Kent. Was his plan just to follow Jackson around the city? Buy up anything next door?

Jackson sighed. “Fine,” he said, hating this little game of cat and mouse. He’d rather just ignore Kent, pretend he didn’t exist, but Kent had other ideas. He’d seemed obsessed lately with picking a fight, and it was in no small part due to the fact that Jackson was far more successful than Kent, had reality TV offers when Kent had none, and had outbid him on a recent parkland deal with the city, a lucrative project that would turn junkyards into public spaces. Jackson understood that Kent was a bad developer, that he’d lost out on a number of big deals recently because he hadn’t had the vision or the courage to jump into new projects. Jackson had both. Of course, if Kent spent less time in strip clubs and more time reading up on real estate, he could be as successful, too.

Kent hung around, standing near the door, that smug grin on his face that Jackson hated. Jackson glanced back at his computer, dismissal obvious. When Kent didn’t leave right away, Jackson reluctantly looked up. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ll have my people call your people,” he said, completely unaware of how pretentious and clichéd he sounded.

Jackson didn’t respond, but stared at his computer screen until Kent had left.

Hailey rushed in when he was gone.

“Everything...okay?” she asked, tentative.

“Fine. He’s just blowing hot air—as usual. The man has an endless supply.” Jackson shook his head.

“How bad is this rivalry going to get?” Hailey asked. “Should I schedule a fight after school?” Her mouth quirked up in a teasing smile. Hailey, who just married her longtime partner, Kristi, last year, had little tolerance for testosterone-fueled fights.

“I would totally win that fight,” he felt the need to say, for the record.

“Oh, I know you would, sir.” Hailey grinned.

“You’ll be hearing from him about a property near my house. I’m sure the first offer will be laughable. Just be on the lookout.”

“Will do,” Hailey said and ducked out of his office once more.

He took another sip of his now-lukewarm cappuccino and tapped on his keyboard, bringing his computer screen to life. After discussions with Kent, he needed to cleanse his palate. He thought about his new neighbor and her dark eyes and...exposed nipple. He loved her look, not quite Korean, not quite Irish, something in between. He was all kinds of mutt, mostly Celtic, a little bit Cherokee in there somewhere, German, and a spattering of Cajun, too. Curious about Chloe, he pulled up her building and saw it was a rental property, apartments, which he knew already. He saw old pictures of what must be her condo, a small efficiency. As he swiped through them, his phone lit up with an incoming message from his ex-girlfriend.

Miss you.

He stared at the message and shook his head. Laurie. Really? She missed him? He knew that was a lie. She missed his money, maybe. Him? No way. He deleted the message. Hearing from Laurie felt like a bucket of cold water over his head. Why was he thinking about the mystery girl next door? She was probably no different than Laurie.

Even Jackson realized he was slipping down into a dark place. He didn’t like it, either. Didn’t like his new morose attitude. He’d always been a go-getter. That was how he’d built his empire from nothing.

Then he got another message. How’s the move going? Bed assembled yet? This from Annaliese, one of his friends with benefits, an Eastern European model who was more than happy to be kept in rotation.

Maybe, he said.

If it is, how about I come over and help you break it in tonight?

Jackson thought about Annaliese’s curves, her sleek red hair and the way she had a knack for distracting him from problems, namely with her talented hands. And mouth.

He’d never fall in love Annaliese—she was far too single-minded for him, and it was purely just about the sex. She never wanted dinner or drinks. She’d made it clear from the start that she had no interest in any relationship, and even if she did, he’d be the last person she’d think about marrying. Annaliese had a theory that no one could be faithful, really, especially rich men. Not that she’d given him the chance. Still, he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to sit across from Annaliese at a dinner table. Most of the time when she showed up at his place, she wore a raincoat and nothing else. Occasionally, she’d wear garters. Or transparent lace. Or thongs. He found himself wondering what she’d choose tonight.

It’s a date, he wrote.

You know I don’t date, she wrote back, and he grinned.

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU SHOULD COME out with us tonight,” said Ryan on the phone as Chloe glanced down at her just-microwaved burrito. She had her hands-free set tucked in her ear as she sat in her warm kitchen, though it was cooling off now that the sun had set outside and a soothing breeze seeped into her open window. She glanced at her shattered screen. The phone still worked as a phone, but there was no way she’d be able to check text messages or Twitter. It would be one more expense she’d need to make when she got her next check. She’d just have to wait until then. It didn’t help that most of her social media clients of late were nonprofits who took a long time paying their bills. She’d worked most of the afternoon with a nonprofit group called Our Home, which tried to help low-income families stay in neighborhoods that were slowly being gentrified.

She’d uploaded some photos of their work. Much of what they did resembled Habitat for Humanity projects, except they repaired damaged buildings and pressured local aldermen not to green-light commercial real estate that could threaten low-income housing. Of course, if Chloe didn’t get paid soon, she’d have to move herself to the category of low income. Her laptop remained open on the dining room table, proof she had been working some today. She was still wearing the outfit she’d flashed her new neighbor in (her pajama tank and shorts, having not bothered to change since she’d been chained to her laptop most of the day). Owning her own consulting business meant she got to work from home, but it also meant that work never stopped, either. Not if she wanted her business to survive. She’d just gotten a notice in her mailbox, too, something about a new owner of the building. She hoped that didn’t mean a rent hike when her lease was up in a few months, but she knew it might.

“Ryan, I don’t know...” I’d have to shower. Change. It seems like such a production. Or she could sit and eat her burrito, binge-watch Game of Thrones, and call it a night. The latter seemed so much simpler.

“Brendan says if you don’t get out of the house once this week, we’re officially holding an intervention.” Chloe grinned. She loved Ryan and Brendan—she’d stood up in their wedding the summer before. She’d been friends with Ryan since college and had been thrilled when he’d met Brendan—the two were great together: both dark-haired and lean, both rabid outdoorsmen, with a bent toward mountain climbing. Whenever Chloe thought love might not be in the cards for her, she looked at them and thought that if they could find their soul mates, then probably so could she. She would’ve been nauseated by their sickly sweet Facebook posts, except that she loved them both to death.

“Seriously, Chlo, how many days in a row have you worn the outfit you’re wearing right now?”

“One,” she said. Then she wondered if that was true. Had she changed yesterday? Now she couldn’t quite remember, though she had to admit, the thought had crossed her mind to just head to bed in the same pajamas. Would that be a new low? Not showering and not changing two days in a row. Hell, but wasn’t this one of the major perks of working at home?

“I think you’re lying.”

Chloe had to laugh. “I’ll catch you guys next time, okay?”

Ryan sighed. “Okay, but you’re starting to turn into some weird hermit, you know that? You need to get out. Socialize with people. You do social media all day, but you never talk to anyone anymore. Like when was your last human interaction?”

“That’s not necessary for my job,” she pointed out.

“No, but it is for your mental health. Since the breakup...”

“Don’t even mention his name.” Kevin. The investment banker who’d made fun of her consulting business, who often told her she should “get a real job” and endlessly made jokes about how work done in her pajamas was no work at all. But Chloe was proud of her accomplishments, proud of being her own boss. But because she didn’t have a traditional job, Kevin thought she was somehow less important. He saw a girlfriend mostly as an accessory and not a person, which was why he called her by the wrong name in bed...a name she discovered from a series of lurid text messages on his phone belonged to his coworker, a woman he’d been sleeping with on the side.

“You’ve been hiding, Chlo. Time to break free and get out there,” Ryan said.

She knew he was right, but she didn’t feel like getting out there. As awful as Kevin had been to her, she’d gotten to the point where she had really started to think they might get married. He’d told her as much. The fact that he’d been cheating was a blow she still felt six months later. It was because Chloe knew she wanted more. She was closing in on thirty, and her biological clock had kicked into overdrive. She wanted a baby, a family, a husband, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to find any of those things going out to a bar with Ryan.

“I will—eventually,” she said, and glanced at her cooling burrito on her plate, thinking about how unappetizing it looked. “I just need some time. Besides, I’ve got a new neighbor who just moved in. Totally ripped. And loaded, too.”

“Oh! A Christian Grey!”

“Uh...well, if Christian Grey wore shorts and had tattoos.” She took a bite of the burrito and nearly scalded her tongue. She dropped the too-hot microwaved dinner.

“Ooooh. A bad boy. A rich bad boy. I like it.”

Chloe laughed. “Don’t tell Brendan. He’ll get jealous.”

“He might. You should go for that. Ride that bike if you know what I mean.”

“I think he might be gay. I mean, he’s got a six-pack.” Chloe bit her lip as she wandered to her window and glanced at her new neighbor’s darkened third floor. She’d watched all afternoon but hadn’t seen Jackson again. Instead, an army of assistants had come and unpacked him entirely. She’d never seen such efficiency before, but in a matter of hours, they’d unpacked his kitchen, set up his bed, even hung art on the walls. It must be nice to be rich, she’d thought, as she’d watched his minions do all the grunt work.

Ryan considered this. “You’re right. Six-pack abs—they are rampant in the gay community,” he deadpanned.

Just then, the neighbor’s light flickered on. Chloe backed away from her window. “Uh...gotta go, okay? I’ll call you later.”

“Just remember what I said. Don’t be a hermit!”

“Love you!” she called, and then clicked off. She told herself she shouldn’t spy on her neighbor, and besides, it was probably one of his assistants anyway. But as she hovered near the curtains, she watched Jackson enter the third floor from the open stairway at the back of the living room. He immediately tugged off his shirt.

Oh, my. That was a view she could get used to: well-toned pecs, rippled abs, broad, muscled shoulders. She wondered again what he did for a living. Model? Action hero? Jackson could be either. He disappeared into the far right room, his bedroom, as she’d watched his home-decor minions set up his bed, and carry in armful after armful of expensive suits. She didn’t see a kitchen, so it had to be on one of the two floors below. She couldn’t imagine what, exactly, he was doing with all that space. For all she knew, the first floor could be an indoor basketball court. Or filled with trampolines. She had no idea how the über-rich lived.

Maybe he was just going to bed, she thought, and then went back to her burrito. She took a bite that was still part frozen. How was one end on fire and the other an ice cube? Ugh. She put it down, suddenly not feeling like eating it. She clicked off the overhead kitchen light, the oven light the only thing illuminating her small kitchen. She glanced up and saw Jackson emerging from his bedroom wearing only mesh shorts, slung low on his hips, and still no shirt. He sank down on his plush leather couch and put his feet up. His phone must’ve sounded because he picked it up and pressed it to his ear. Then, a second later, he tapped the screen. He laid back on the couch, his eyes on the staircase. Suddenly, a woman clad only in the shortest silk jumper Chloe had ever seen appeared on the stairwell in strappy stiletto heels and too much makeup, her auburn bob cut at chin length. She was gorgeous. She sauntered over to the couch, a pouty expression on her face, and he sat there, watching her.

Was that his girlfriend? She felt a hardened pit at the center of her stomach.

But she didn’t greet him like a girlfriend. They didn’t hug or kiss. Instead, she began to slip out of her little shorts romper, the silk sleeves fluttering downward, revealing the fact that she wore no bra. She was all business, this one. No warm fuzzies. He watched the show appreciatively as she kicked out of the one-piece, now wearing only stilettos, her bare, toned body in front of him.

Well, he’s definitely not gay.

Chloe knew she needed to stop watching. But she couldn’t. She clutched at the curtain, half-hidden, mesmerized by the action unfolding in front of her. It was a billion times more interesting than her abandoned burrito. Her bad-boy neighbor stood then, and the woman knelt in front of him. She jerked down his shorts as he grabbed a handful of her hair and gave it a playful tug.

I can’t watch this, her mind screamed, and yet she couldn’t look away. The woman freed him, and Chloe nearly gasped...he was bigger than Kevin. Much bigger. She didn’t even know they came that big, even while the woman worked at it with both hands, and he stiffened beneath her touch. He watched her intently as she took part of him in her mouth, the tip. God, did they not know the windows were wide-open? Did they not know she could see...everything?