That asshole isn’t going to get the better of me. Not today, not ever.
And you know what? I’m done with one-night stands. He was hot as hell, and the sex was…well, it was mind-blowing. If I think about it separately from his douchebag behavior this morning, it still makes the space between my legs heat up.
Forget about him. There’s a man out there who’s even better, and when the time is right, I’ll find him, and I’ll take him. No doubt about it.
Some doubt pricks at the back of my mind. Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent sure that somebody can top that?
The brutal truth? No. I’m not sure, and it pisses me off.
In the end, what can I do?
Ace Kingsley wants nothing to do with me. When it comes right down to it, I’m probably dodging a bullet by not getting involved with him. Past experience tells me that it would end in disaster. The memory of cheating Anderson floats into view, and I slap it away, forcing it back into the past.
Not entirely, of course. But enough that I can move on.
Well, screw him. I don’t want anything to do with him either.
On Sunday afternoon, I linger in my walk-in closet, choosing a boho maxi dress in a bright, cheery pattern and pairing it with buttery leather boots. I start with my best bra and panty set, the one that makes me feel the sexiest, and then slip the dress on over my shoulders, finishing with the boots.
Then I sit down at my lighted vanity and open my makeup case. Two weeks ago I went to the makeup megastore on 5th and 9th and filled a bag with new stuff from Smashbox and Elizabeth Arden, replenishing my stash with smooth new containers and bottles and a new set of brushes. I work my own magic on my face until there’s no sign I might have been holding back tears.
I look damn fabulous.
There’s only one more thing I need to do before I head to the salon. My laptop is right where I left it, perched on the desk in the living room, the fall sunlight streaming down on it like some kind of heavenly beacon. The dust motes in the air are almost transfixing.
Yeah—a nap is in order when I get back from being pampered.
I flip open the cover of the laptop and tap at the keyboard to wake it up. It takes no time to respond, and in seconds I’m at the Rainflower Blue login screen.
Of course, today is the day that the site has exploded with traffic, with new posts.
And they’re all about Ace Kingsley.
At least half of them are about Ace Kingsley leaving the Swan last night.
My heart rate speeds up.
I have options. I can confirm some of the rumors, as Magnolia, right now. I can ignore it entirely and wait until this blows over. Or I can keep watching, waiting, until the right move becomes more obvious.
I choose the most innocuous thread, titled ACE KINGSLEY, NEW YORK CITY?? and make a post at the end of all the chatter. Ace Kingsley is back in New York City. Then I change the title of the thread to read CONFIRMED: ACE KINGSLEY IS IN NEW YORK CITY.
That will be enough fodder for discussion until I feel like wading into this. I need to know what people are saying before I respond, if I ever do. The fact that I went home with him last night won’t help or harm anyone.
Unless, of course, he’s got a secret wife from Italy who also happens to be a member of Rainflower Blue.
Doubtful.
When in doubt, stay silent.
I’ll come back to this when I’m good and ready.
I grab my purse from the hook by the door and sling it over my shoulder, feeling lighter already. At least the conversation about Ace is in my kingdom. I can engage with it if I choose. I’m in control.
The elevator deposits me in the lobby a few moments later. I can’t wait to be back in the September sun.
I take a deep breath as I step out in front of the building, looking forward to the stroll I have ahead of me, only to be confronted with the sight of a massive moving truck. There are six men moving furniture out of it and onto the sidewalk.
Someone’s moving into my building.
I vaguely remember running into the realtor in the elevator a few weeks ago, but this seems like a quick sale. As far as I know, the only unit available in the building is the penthouse unit, and that would have to be….
My thoughts grind to a halt as a man in a white button-down tucked into flawlessly pressed, tailored pants steps around from the back of the truck, directing the other men in a voice that’s as collected and confident as ever.
It’s Ace Kingsley.
And that asshole is moving into my place.
Chapter 12
Ace
My realtor, Hilary, was only too happy to oblige me with a lightning round of property shopping in the city yesterday, and the second place we visited was a perfect fit.
It’s a penthouse unit in Midtown, far enough away from my place on the Upper East Side to offer a clean slate.