Look At Me

“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 (#u551b5734-f09d-53b4-9315-1fa34232ffac)

“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.