The thought makes my skin crawl. But I owe Anderson this promise for his loyalty to Holt and to me. I want to save Richardson for all the reasons Allie wanted me to, but not at the expense of my relationship with Anderson. “You have my word.”
Allie
The pictures of the houses on my monitor are beginning to blur. One hour of searching the Multiple Listing Service (MLS) for new listings and then scanning through Holt’s private database of new houses coming onto the market, and I’m still finding nothing better than what I showed Jenny this morning. Apparently the houses I found were only good houses in my eyes, not hers. It’s too small, the layout is weird, the paint colors are horrible; Jenny complained about it all, and I had to force myself not to roll my eyes at her.
First-world problems, indeed.
I rub the ache out of my eyes; I can’t keep looking at this screen hoping the perfect house pops out at me. Frustrated at being back at square one with the Lowes, I rise from my desk, desperately needing some fresh air, and remember the patio Liv told me about earlier.
The floor is dead quiet as I move slowly down the hallway. There are a couple other offices with lights on, telling me I’m not the only insane person here tonight. I make it up the stairs in no time, hurrying outside, letting the door shut loudly behind me.
A lovely garden, with grass and shrubs, surrounds me, looking more like a small park than a rooftop of a high-rise. I follow the cobblestone pathway with the solar lights lining the sides, heading straight for the balcony.
The night is dark and clouds are covering much of the sky, hiding the stars and moon, but I inhale a long breath anyway, staring out at the skyline, pretty sure there’s not a skyline in the world better than San Francisco’s.
I exhale the long breath, as a light breeze carries over the patio, and I shiver, wrapping my arms about myself.
“You’re cold.”
I jump and swing around, taking in the view of Micah, finding myself speechless. He looks different now, all stretched out on a wicker love seat, a glass of scotch in his hand. Definitely more relaxed, and maybe less intimidating, too.
He rises from his seat and takes off his blazer, offering it to me. “Come, take this. You’re cold.”
I’m thinking I don’t need his coat, watching him undress warms me enough. How a man can look that sexy in a vest, dress shirt, and slacks is utterly beyond me. I’m starting to believe it’s a gift from God, and Micah is well gifted.
I shiver again, but I’m not entirely sure that’s from the cold. Most things in my life I can explain. My reaction to Micah I can’t. Everything inside of me lights up around him.
Sensing my pause becoming awkward, I move to him and accept the jacket, draping the fabric around my shoulders. “Thank you.”
Micah returns to his seat and opens the side table, revealing a cooler. “We’ve got scotch, vodka, or beer. What’s your flavor?”
I snort. “Looks like I need a drink, huh?”
“A little.” He grins.
“Scotch, please.” Something stiff sounds good right about now.
Micah pours a shot into a glass then hands me the drink. I take a sip, the liquid sliding down my throat, instantly relaxing me. He settles into the corner of the love seat, turning to face me and propping his shoes on the coffee table, one ankle over the other. He’s watching me in that way he does. Like he’s trying to magically discover all my secrets.
The discomfort I feel at his examination—no, study—of me forces me to break the silence. “I’m surprised you haven’t left for the day. Do you have a suite here or something?” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Images of Micah naked in his bed flood my mind. I sip my scotch, hastily erasing them.
The side of his mouth arches, a telling sign that he knows I’m thinking lewd thoughts about him. And why shouldn’t he—I imagine most women think these things in his presence. “No
, I’m leaving soon, but wanted some air first,” he eventually says.
That I understand. “Don’t like to take work home with you, right?”
He nods.
“I do the same.” Another surprise. We actually have something in common. “So, do you have a house close by, then?”
He takes a longer sip of his scotch than I do, all the while watching me, of course, then he finally decides to answer, “I do have a house, but it’s near the bay. I stay at the Phoenix during the week.”
The name rings a bell, and soon I realize he’s talking about a hotel. “You live at a hotel?” When he nods in confirmation, I snort. “Now, that’s the dream.”
He chuckles softly. “I stay there during the week because it’s close to Holt. It saves me from an exhausting commute, considering I typically put in long days.” He holds his glass up, watching the amber liquid spin within. “Besides, my busy schedule doesn’t leave me time to cook or maintain a property myself, so it makes sense.”
Surprisingly, I actually don’t mind his answer. He doesn’t buy more for himself than what he needs. He’s using what he has already. Okay, another surprise. He doesn’t act totally spoiled.