Real Good Man (Real Duet #1)

Now I’m sitting at the curb on top of a stack of boxes, waiting for a car and driver I’m not going to be able to afford for much longer since I no longer have a job because of some stupid no-moonlighting policy.

If you ask me, it’s a ridiculous policy. Basically, I’m not allowed to have any other kind of employment or business interest that’s not approved in advance, in writing, by the company. Since I didn’t read the employee handbook cover to cover, I wasn’t aware. But I’d signed a statement saying I’d read it and agreed to everything inside.

My explanations and excuses didn’t sway HR or my boss. In fact, they probably helped in the decision to terminate my employment immediately.

Because it bears repeating, I’ll say it again. Karma is a bitch.

It’s been exactly four days since Logan Brantley walked out of my apartment and left me feeling like shit on his shoe. I know it’s my fault, and the guilt has been eating at me.

Maybe if I hadn’t botched that so completely, I wouldn’t have spent this entire week picturing every woman in that Podunk town coming into his garage to get some work done on their chassis.

It’s probably what distracted me into using the autofill address option and picking my office as the ship-to location for the factory.

As rain pelts down on me, I try to find a bright side. I have a lot more time to devote to the work I actually want to do instead of the job that was grinding away at me.

I’ve dumped almost all my cash into my business, but I have enough left in the bank to float me for a short time while I figure out my finances and how I’m going to pay for my life until the first production run is out in the market. My trust fund only allows me to take out a certain amount each year, and I hit that limit for my start-up costs two months ago.

As my car pulls up, I feel a certain sense of relief. Maybe getting fired will be the best thing that ever happened to me. Or I’m going to get evicted, end up living in a cardboard box and eating out of Dumpsters. No. Definitely not.

I’m arranging for the doorman to bring the boxes inside when Frau Frances shuffles into the lobby with Jordana twirling on her leash, and Irene, another of her caretakers, by her side.

Of course, the first thing she spots is me with my file box of crap I cleaned out of my desk.

“Don’t tell me you got fired.”

Her voice carries through the entire lobby, and several heads swivel in my direction as Jude, the daytime doorman, pushes a hand truck full of the other boxes toward the service elevator to deliver to my apartment. Why didn’t I give him this one too?

I try to brazen it out. “Why would you assume I got fired? I could have quit.”

I’m honestly not in the mood to pick a fight with Myrna today, and am relieved when another resident joins us in the elevator. Maybe an audience will tone down her acerbic attitude.

“You’re not dumb enough to quit when you know that the association bylaws and your lease require that to be a resident in this building, you have to be gainfully employed or able to prove that you have regular and substantial income coming in every month from other means, or have a substantial minimum bank balance.”

Her words hit me like a subway train. “Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you read your lease?”

Of course I didn’t, but I can’t tell her that. “That can’t be legal.”

“It is if you agreed to it in writing. I was on the association board when we instituted the change after the dot-com bubble. Too many residents were losing their jobs and life savings, and we didn’t want them taking up space here while we waited to evict them through traditional means. If you’d purchased your apartment when you moved in, you wouldn’t have an issue.”

Jordana pops up on her back feet to paw at my thigh. I bend down to give her a pat, but my heart isn’t in it.

This can’t be right. And why didn’t I buy to begin with? Oh, right, because I thought having a mortgage sounded like a bad idea.

“What does regular and substantial income from other means mean?” I ask her.

“That’s for tenants who live on pensions and such. You have to prove you receive a deposit every month.”

Which wouldn’t be a problem if I’d budgeted for monthly deposits from my trust, but that’s out of the question now, and my bank balance isn’t going to impress anyone.

“Surely there’s some kind of grace period for that. They’re not just going to notify me tomorrow that I have to move out because I got fired.”

The elevator stops on the eleventh floor, and the other female passenger gives both Mrs. Frances and me the side-eye before stepping off.

Surprisingly, Mrs. Frances doesn’t come back at me with both barrels blazing. “I guess you better read the association bylaws and your lease then, because I don’t recall the grace period. That association board has always been cutthroat, and apartments in this building are highly sought after. Do you know how many people are hoping I’ll die so they can buy mine? It’s basically the only reason I get out of bed every day and go do that horrible yoga stuff—so I can live forever and screw them all over.”

I believe every word she says.

Meeting her faded blue eyes, I say, “Please, just . . . don’t say anything to the association. I have a way to make a living. I just need a few months for it to all come together.”

She narrows her gaze on me. “You’re going to become a call girl, aren’t you? Not that you shouldn’t get paid for what you’re giving away for free.”

I choke on air. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, if that’s how you’re going to make a living, I’m not keeping quiet for that.”

The elevator slows on our floor, and I answer as the doors open. “No. No, I’m not becoming a call girl.”

She harrumphs and trudges down the hall with her cane in hand. “I guess we’ll see about that.”

Before I can counter, Mrs. Frances is already halfway into her apartment with Irene shooting me sympathetic looks over her shoulder and Jordana yipping at the door.

I’m so screwed.





Chapter 17


Logan


I reach into the top of my toolbox to find a pencil, and when my hands touch satin, I mentally kick my own ass. There’s seriously something wrong with a man who steals a pair of panties and keeps them in his toolbox. And probably a special place in hell for the f*cker who stops to touch them in the middle of the workday.

Shoving them aside, I grab a pencil and write down the VIN of the car that I just agreed to restore. Something about it is rubbing me wrong, and not just the fact that I don’t know how Lonnie Benson got the cash to buy a ’69 Camaro. He’s gotta be cooking meth in his trailer because I would have heard if he’d won the lottery.