“You spying on me?”
She took a step away from him, backing toward the doors as her cheeks turned pink. “N-no. I just . . . I mean, I take a run some mornings and see you heading off, and when I come back from . . . I mean, some evenings when I return late, I notice you . . . you . . .”
“You notice me, Meggie,” he rumbled, letting his eyes rest on hers.
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, I do. I notice that you don’t say hello. I notice that you wish you were anywhere but trapped in an elevator with me making small talk. I notice that, although you know how much I hate the nickname Meggie, you never miss an opportunity to use it.”
She was magnificent with her flashing light brown eyes and pink, pillowed lips. If she were his, he’d lunge toward her right now. He’d bury his hands in her hair and send her goddamn hairpins to the floor as he pulled her face to his and—
Margaret shook her head in disappointment and turned away from him, as though giving up on his ability to give an appropriate response to her mini tirade.
“Diego gave me the name of his cousin Geraldo,” she said, steering the conversation back to safer waters. “Apparently he does work for other tenants now and then.”
Cameron took a deep breath, wishing away the very vivid images in his head, and heard himself say, “Come to think of it, I do have a project that needs attention. Perhaps I should schedule him too, as long as he’s going to be here in the building.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Oh? I didn’t realize you were considering a renovation.”
“My master bathroom’s too small,” he blurted out.
As she stared at him, her little pink tongue darted out to lick her heavenly lips, and her voice was a little breathier than usual when she finally responded, “Oh, I see.”
The elevator dinged, stopping at Cameron’s floor, but he made no move from where he leaned against the back of the elevator. What did she see? She couldn’t possibly see what he saw in his head: her small, lithe body all soaped up, her soft skin pressed against his as she leaned back against him, naked in his bathtub, her back to his front, her hair tickling his bare chest, her legs entwined with his, his hands on her slick, pert breasts as she moaned his—
“I can give you Geraldo’s information. Hold on a sec.” She rifled through her bag, pulling out her cell phone as the doors opened.
Cameron’s cock was hardening by the second. He needed to get away from her. Far away. At least a full floor away.
“Text it to me,” he said, brushing her shoulder as he strode past her, through the open doors.
“But I don’t have your—”
Looking back at her buttoned-up beauty over his shoulder, he said, “717-555-7172.”
And the doors closed.
***
Margaret snapped her jaw shut and scrambled to enter the digits into her phone before she forgot them. Not that Cameron Winslow deserved anything from her, but she wasn’t the sort of person who withheld help just because the person asking for it was a bona fide jackass.
As she typed in his name, the elevator doors opened to her floor, and Margaret walked out of the elevator and headed down the hallway to her apartment. She’d purchased it last fall, after moving back to the United States.
Unlocking her door, she entered her dark apartment, placed her bag and keys on the front hall table, and slipped out of her heels. As she padded into the round center hall, the chandelier above sensed her movement and illuminated the room. Like the spokes of a wheel, all the rooms in her apartment opened into this hallway. Her kitchen was through an arched doorway to the far left, another arch led to the dining room, and yet another to the living room. To the right, a final archway opened to a hallway that led to her bedroom suite, guest room, and guest bath. Between the kitchen and dining room, there was a swinging door, and between the dining room and living room, French doors, which could be opened when entertaining.
It was an enormous apartment by Philadelphia standards, but she’d been captivated by it from the first moment she saw it, and her trust fund tidily covered the expense. Still, so much space was almost a waste for one person, she mused, heading into the kitchen. Especially when that one person spent every weekend at her vineyard in Newtown, Pennsylvania, about an hour from the city.