“Yes, and how do you make a living while doing it?” Elle asked.
Again, not unfriendly, not at all. But the woman was definitely reserving judgment. “I write young adult,” Colbie said to Kylie, still snuggling with the lovebug Vinnie. To Elle, she said, “And I do other stuff as well. Write short stories, waitress, retail, whatever comes my way.”
Again, more of an omission than a lie, as she’d done all those things—just not since the royalties had started rolling in.
“You landed in a pretty amazing place to write,” Kylie said. “This building’s a fun place to be creative.”
Exactly what Colbie was banking on.
Chapter 7
#WhatTheFrenchToast
That afternoon Spence was trying to apply himself to his computer. He needed to be working on the software for the security of the cargo on the drones he’d built but he was getting nowhere fast.
When Elle showed up carrying his first choice of poison—coffee, black and strong—he was grateful for the interruption.
He couldn’t concentrate or focus to save his own life. Instead he kept picturing Colbie’s fathomless green eyes and how they revealed her thoughts more than her words.
“You also got another present in the mail,” Elle said. “One of the Real Housewives producers is apparently a fan and she sent a box of your favorite candy. Wants to know if you date cougars.”
Spence slid her a look.
Elle laughed. “Right. I’ll decline politely.” She paused. “Your newest tenant’s been busy,” she said casually.
But here was the thing. Elle was never casual. “Yeah? Doing what?”
“Asking questions about you, trying to figure out what you do for a living.”
Spence shrugged that off. “It’s just a little game between us—relax. She’s not press.”
“As long as you know what you’re doing. Oh, and check your e-mail. I sent you some things I need you to go over and get back to me on. I’ll be in my office.”
“Ah, don’t go away mad,” he said.
A little humor came into her eyes. “Just go away?”
“That’d be great.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said, heading to the door. “Follow your heart, whatever. Just promise me you’ll take your brain with you. Oh—”
She stopped short and turned back. “I almost forgot the best part.” She set her iPad on the desk in front of him, her browser opened to an article.
SAN FRANCISCO’S TOP TEN
MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELORS
Jesus. “Tell me I’m not on this list,” he said.
Elle didn’t speak.
“Shit. Tell me I’m not number one on this list.”
Elle let out a breath. “You’re not number one.”
“Number two?”
She grimaced.
He scrolled through the list and felt insulted. “Number four?”
She laughed at him as he pushed the iPad away. “So let me get this straight. You didn’t want to be on the list, but now that you are, you want to be number one?”
“Well, yeah. Anything else just sucks.”
“It’s not a poker game you lost—you do realize that, right?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe if you went to more of the social events, you’d get bumped to number three,” Elle teased because he’d gone to a grand total of zero society events.
“Elle.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, go away.”
And thankfully, she did, leaving him alone. Just how he liked it. When he’d sold the start-up, it’d been a life changer. It’d given him the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted. Buying this building, for instance. Then moving in and then filling it with people he cared about, allowing him to burrow in and create his first real “home,” where he knew everyone and felt comfortable. He was grateful for that.
It’d allowed him to keep the real world at bay too. For a while he’d been hounded for interviews, but for the most part it’d been easy enough to dodge them. That is, until a month ago, when an old college roommate had surfaced, begging him for a sit-down.
College hadn’t been a great time for Spence. He’d gone at age sixteen, which had put him at a big disadvantage on all levels. One of his roommates, Brandon, hadn’t exactly been a friend but at least he’d allowed Spence to tag along to frat parties and drinking nights with him. Then Spence had graduated before Brandon, and Brandon had stopped speaking to him.
All these years later, Spence hadn’t wanted to give the interview but . . . hell. Spence had been hired right out of college at age eighteen to a government think tank. He’d gone from there into business with Caleb, a kid he’d met in the think tank. Both adventures had been hugely successful, which meant that Spence had gotten lucky.
Brandon hadn’t been nearly so lucky. Nothing had worked out for him after he’d finally graduated. He was a struggling tech writer for a second-rate online magazine. Feeling bad about that, Spence had very reluctantly agreed to an interview—on the stipulation that they talk only about Spence’s work.
But Brandon had used his personal knowledge of Spence from their college days to spice up the final piece. Deeply private stuff, including his screwed-up beginnings, not to mention his spectacular failure with media darling Dr. Clarissa Woodward.
Now the whole world knew things he’d kept private. Such as just how socially inept he was, how out of step with the rest of the world he felt, and how he couldn’t seem to manage to sustain any sort of intimate relationship.
Worse, the article had turned his life into a living hell. The press had leapt on it like Christmas had come early. Spence still didn’t understand why, but for some reason people were fascinated by him, the poverty-stricken kid turned Forbes Top 100.
Who was now one of San Francisco’s most eligible bachelors.
Shit.
That was a joke in itself.
There really wasn’t much that embarrassed Spence, but this. This did the trick. He was pissed as hell at Brandon and pissed at himself for letting it happen. Some smart guy he was . . .
His phone had been having seizures, which he was ignoring. But the sound was driving him crazy, so he turned it off. “Now maybe you’ll shut the hell up . . .”
“Talking to yourself again?” Caleb asked.
His sometime business partner and one of the few people in the world who had access to this apartment strolled in. Spence narrowed his eyes. “Hey. You made millions on our last deal, where we sold the start-up.”
“Yep.” Caleb headed for Spence’s fridge. “What’s your point?” Without waiting for the answer, he helped himself to the refrigerator, which was stocked by Trudy, the building’s housecleaning supervisor.
Trudy loved Spence. Trudy also knew Spence didn’t cook—unless popping a Hot Pocket into the microwave counted—and she knew his tastes. He wasn’t fond of vegetables aside from corn on the cob, hated anything green unless it was a gummy bear, and basically had the appetite of a tween.
“My point,” Spence said, watching Caleb shopping his fridge shelves, “is that you’re not being hounded by the press.”