Prologue
Weston
Wynter Carlisle.
Current editor ofThe Avant Garde. The air of poise she carries as she sweeps across the office in black with hints of red, moving quickly and gracefully like a queen, is mesmerizing.Fitting, seeing as she’s a princess, the heir to one of the wealthiest families living in New York. If you ever get into a bind, her father is the man you call to get you out of the most heinous of crimes. More wins in a single career than any other lawyer, backed by only the most prominent leaders in New York. Highest paid in the country.
Ice, power, and authority radiate from her. Making her presence undeniable and palpable through a room. Unbeknownst to her, she is known as the ice queen throughout New York - cold, unfeeling, and driven to be the best.
The little black dress she wears today is extra tight and exposes every single curve and dip. Curly red hair teases her neck, the same place I want to run my tongue. Ruby red lips that beg for my kisses, to be owned by my lips. Piercing blue eyes that see through you right to the very core of your being. Almost like she’s examining your entire existence to see if it measures up to her standard of worth.
In my case, it’s probably a no.
Her quiet pensiveness consumes me. I wonder if it’s her rich upbringing that doesn’t allow her to connect with us who stand in silence stunned by her? Does she view us as mere jesters for her entertainment or is she really shy? If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a mixture of both.
The lack of shits she gives is ball-busting, and she’s the best damn editor in the country. So how The Avant Garde landed her still baffles me. The benefits must be extraordinary because she’s so much better than this magazine. Everything fits into her perfectly, organized life. Things come and go as she pleases. She waves her hand or shits and I bet she’s praised.
You know what she hadn’t planned on? Me. That’s right. Quirky, charming, sexy me… if I say so myself. The difference between us is that I don’t flaunt my money or wear my name like a second title. Every day she stares at me, or maybe through me like she’s trying to read the scripts of each thought. Burning those azure blue eyes into me. She can scrutinize and stare as much as she wants, but I have nothing to hide. Not from her.
Wynter Carlisle is a control freak. She has this need to know secrets. To figure people out. Every part of her life is precise. Every item on her desk sits perfectly adjusted, merely inches from one another. Almost as if she’s taken a ruler to it. She has one… yes, one… picture frame on her desk, but it’s the same older couple that came with the frame the day she bought it.
Her assortment of bobblehead turtles’ line up parallel to her monitor, each the same width apart from the next and I have to admit, they’re literally one inch apart, I’ve measured.
A weird quirk for sure. I’m not one to judge, though. People have more than likely said the same thing about me and my... uh… obsession with fairytales.
She’s hiding something underneath that facade of stone and I have a plan to figure out exactly what it is. I want to know what makes her tick. What consumes her? What gets under her skin? What’s her flaw? Other than my flirting and charm, that is.
It’s starting to get to her. I can tell by every flinch or slip of her mask and I’m enticed to do it more. I want it to slip. I don’t want to play charades; I want her to show me the real her - The face behind the mask.
Come out and play, Wynter.A grin crosses my lips.
“Croix, my office now.” Her siren voice calls to me like a sailor doomed to meet his fate at the rocky cliffs. Wynter never calls me by my first name, but it’s not unusual. The longer she keeps up this detached front, the less she has to pretend.
My little arctic queen is angry and I wonder what’s put her over the edge this time. A flush covers her cheeks as her eyes find mine. I bet it's the same blush she gets during sex.
Her pen angrily slips between her fingers as she twists it over and over.
“You rang?” I answer with a smirk. She shakes her head, looking down at what I assume is my piece for the magazine. “You really expect me to believe that ‘dating apps are the new rage for fans of hookups’?”
“Hey, don’t knock Hook Meuntil you try it. Maybe it’d loosen you up a little, Ice Queen.” I smile another one of my dazzling, charming smiles and she scoffs pushing away my piece.
“I don’t need a dating app to help me hook up with men, I do just fine on my own.”
I snicker, mumbling under my breath. “You probably wouldn’t know a proper man even if he pleasured you six ways to Sunday.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. Guess some of us in the dating world just aren’t as lucky as you, your royal highness.” Sarcasm falls from my lips.
“Please stop calling me that, I am your boss.”
I fake salute her; a fat smile still planted across my face.
Leaning against the wall, I watch her eyes follow my silhouette.Do I detect a hint of approval?I’m wearing a white button-down, the top popped open exposing a slight peep show of my tattoos. Her eyes trail down my body and she licks her lips before catching herself. “Anything else you needed or was that all?”
She bites the cap of her pen and a slight crease forms on her forehead, as it often does when she’s lost in concentration or thought - another one of the many things I find intriguing about this woman.
“If this is the best you have, I guess I’ll post it. I am curious though… is this really all you’ve got swimming around in your brain? I find it hard to believe that a Yale graduate has nothing better to write about than hookups. It’d be a shame to find someone better versed in the world for that new senior columnist position opening up soon.”
My heart sinks.She wouldn’t, would she?Everyone knows I’m the best at my job. I always get the stories. I have a way of getting people to open up about the silliest things. A smile creases the corners of her lips and my nemesis is back. She will taunt me. Dangle the carrot close enough in front of my face, but not close enough that I could ever willingly reach out and grab it.
Again, I say.Game on.
Now, I have to figure out how to worm myself into her cold, wicked soul.What are you hiding, my little ice queen? Where does the dark part of your mind go when no one’s looking?