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 Twelve
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.
Hilary rushed the paperwork through—anything is possible with the right incentive—and even though I won’t be able to sign the final documents until Friday, my new move-in day is today.
I’m having her tag everything in the old penthouse for sale, except my personal items. There’s a team of people working on packing up my clothes and books and other miscellaneous things right now.
After I shook hands with Hilary, I went down to a furniture store owned by a friend in Chelsea and spent the rest of the evening choosing all new furniture—entire rooms worth of chairs, sofas, decorations, a new bed for the master bedroom, bookshelves, everything. He called in several of his people to work overtime having the majority of it collected for this morning, when I sent a moving truck to pick it all up at once.
This new place is going to be fucking perfect.
My heart pounds as I climb out of the Bentley. The moving truck is already pulled up in front of the new building. I’m normally not one to micromanage the staff, but this day is going to go off without a hitch or I’ll be damned.
One of the guys from the moving company—the embroidered name on his shirt reads Ricky—detaches from the little knot of men standing near the curb and approaches, his hand out for a shake.
“Mr. Kingsley?” His accent is strong, and he wears a wide smile.
“In the flesh.”
“Great to meet you, sir. I’m Ricky, and this is my crew. We’ll have your things up to your place in no time. The penthouse, right?”
“That’s right.”
He cranes his neck to look up at the building and lets out a low whistle. “You must be big-time.”
“You could say that.”
Normally, I wouldn’t spend time on chatting with some nobody from a moving company, but there’s a humming in my veins today that’s wiping away some of the black fog from the weekend. Electricity arcs over my skin. I can see just how every single one of these pieces is going to fit into the new place.