Hate Notes Page 2

  I’d found the author of the blue note and his love.

  My cell phone was dancing like a Mexican jumping bean on the nightstand. I reached over and grabbed it just as it went to voice mail. Eleven thirty. Damn, I’d really been out. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was drier than the desert. I needed a tall glass of water, Motrin, a bathroom, and the bedroom blinds drawn to block the god-awful, glaring sun.

  Dragging my hungover butt to the kitchen, I forced myself to rehydrate, even though drinking made me queasy. There was a distinct possibility the water and pills were going to travel in the opposite direction in the near future. I needed to lie down. On my way back to the bedroom, I passed my laptop on the kitchen table. It was a painful reminder of the fuzzy night before—of why I’d finished a bottle of wine alone.

  Todd is engaged.

  I was pissed at him because I felt like crap today. And even more pissed at myself that I’d allowed him to ruin yet another day of my life.

  Ugh.

  My memory was hazy, but the picture of the happy couple was, of course, clear as day. A sudden panic came over me—God, I hope I didn’t do anything stupid that I don’t remember. I tried to ignore the thought, even made it back to my bedroom door, but I knew I’d never be able to rest with the unsettled feeling I had. Returning to the table, I woke up my laptop and went directly to my messages. I breathed a sigh of relief finding I hadn’t messaged Todd and then crawled back to my bed.

  It was early afternoon before I finally started to feel human and took a shower. When I was done, I pulled my cell from the charger and sat on my bed with my hair wrapped in a towel, going through my texts. I’d forgotten my phone had woken me up earlier until I saw I had a new voice mail. Probably another temp agency that wanted to waste a day interviewing me when they didn’t have a job to offer. I hit “Play” and grabbed my brush to comb out my hair as I listened.

  “Hello, Ms. Darling. This is Rebecca Shelton from Eastwood Properties. I’m calling in response to your request to view the penthouse at Millennium Tower. We have a showing today at four. Mr. Eastwood will be on-site if you would like to tour the space after, perhaps around five this evening? Please give us a call to confirm if this works with your schedule. Our number here is . . .”

  I didn’t catch the telephone number she’d left since I’d dropped the phone on the bed. Oh God. I’d completely forgotten that I’d stalked the blue-note guy. Bits and pieces rolled back in through the fog. That face. That gorgeous face. How could I have forgotten that? I remembered clicking through his pictures . . . , then his bio . . . , which led me to a website for Eastwood Properties. But then I couldn’t remember a damn thing.

  Grabbing my laptop, I searched my history and called up the last website I’d visited.

  Eastwood Properties is one of the largest independent brokerage firms in the world. We connect the most prestigious and exclusive properties with qualified buyers, assuring the utmost privacy for both parties. Whether you’re in the market for a luxury New York City penthouse with a view of the park, a waterfront Hampton estate, or an enchanting chateau escape in the mountains, or you’re ready for your own private island, Eastwood is where your dreams begin.

  There was a link to search properties, so I typed in the name of the place the woman had mentioned in the voice mail: Millennium Tower. Sure enough, the penthouse popped up for sale. For only $12 million, I could own an apartment on Columbus Avenue with sweeping views of Central Park. Let me write you a check.

  After drooling through a video and two dozen photos, I clicked on the button to make an appointment to view the property. An application popped up, the top of which read: For the privacy and safety of our sellers, all prospective buyers are required to complete an application to view properties. Only buyers that meet our stringent prequalification criteria will be contacted.

  I snorted. Great prequalification criteria you have there, Eastwood. I wasn’t sure I had enough money to take the train uptown to get to that swanky place, much less buy it. God knows what I’d written that had qualified me.

  I closed the website and was just about to shut my laptop and go back to bed again when I decided to take one more peek at Mr. Romantic on Facebook.

  God, he was gorgeous.

  What if . . .

  I shouldn’t.

  No good ever came out of ideas formulated while drunk.

  I couldn’t.

  But . . .

  That face . . .

  And that note.

  So romantic. So beautiful.

  Plus . . . I’d never seen the inside of a twelve-million-dollar penthouse.

  I really shouldn’t.

  Then again . . . I’d spent the last two years doing everything I should do. And where had that gotten me?

  Right here. It’d gotten me right damn here—hungover and unemployed, sitting in this crappy apartment. Maybe it was time I did the things I shouldn’t be doing for a change. I picked up my phone and let my finger hover over the “Call Back” button for a while.

  Screw it.

  No one would ever know. It could be fun—getting all dressed up and playing the part of a rich Upper West Sider while satisfying my curiosity about the man. What harm was there?

  None that I could think of. Still, you know what they say about curiosity . . .

  I pressed “Call Back.”

  “Hi. This is Charlotte Darling calling to confirm an appointment with Reed Eastwood . . .”

  CHAPTER 3

  CHARLOTTE

  “Feel free to start looking around, or you can stay here in the foyer—whichever you prefer. Mr. Eastwood is just finishing up with his previous appointment and should be with you shortly.”

  Apparently it took more than one person to show a fancy penthouse. Not only was Reed Eastwood somewhere in the vicinity but a hostess was also assigned to greet me and hand me a glossy booklet with information on the property.

  “Thank you,” I said before she disappeared.

  I stood in the foyer, clutching my kelly-green Kate Spade purse that I’d scored in the clearance section of T.J.Maxx and feeling like this might’ve been a very big mistake.

  I had to remind myself why I was here. What did I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. My life was a mess, and at the very least, I could satisfy my curiosity about the author of the blue note and put this whole thing to rest. I just needed to know what had become of him—of them—and I would be on my merry way.

  Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. I could hear muffled talking on the other side of the space but hadn’t seen anyone emerge yet.

  Then came the sound of footsteps echoing along the marble floor.

  My heart beat faster, only to slow down again upon the sight of the hostess walking a wealthy-looking couple through the foyer and to the exit. No Reed Eastwood.

  The woman, holding a tiny white dog, smiled at me before the three of them disappeared into the elevator.

  Where is he?

  For a moment, I wondered if he’d forgotten about me completely. It was so quiet. Was there a back exit? Even though I probably should have just stayed in the foyer, I decided to wander a bit and made my way into a grand library.

  Dark, masculine wood lined the space. Open bookshelves covered every wall from floor to ceiling. Under my feet lay a Persian rug that likely cost more than I could make in an entire year.

  The smell of old books was intoxicating. Meandering over to one of the shelves, I picked up the first one that caught my eye—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. I remembered hearing about this book in school years ago but couldn’t recall for the life of me what it was about.

  “The first great American novel, depending on who you ask.”

  My body shook at the sound of his deep, penetrating voice. It was the kind of voice that sliced right through you.

  My hand over my chest, I turned around. “You scared me.”

  “Did you think you were alone?”

  I froze—absolutely froze—as I
took him in. Reed Eastwood was as dark and intimidating as this room. One look, and my knees were shaking. He was even taller than I’d imagined, and he wore what I was certain had to be a dress shirt custom-tailored for him. It fit the curves of his chest like a glove. He also wore a bow tie and suspenders, which on anyone else might have been deemed nerdy. But on this man—on that muscular chest—they were incredibly sexy.

  He just stood in the doorway, observing me and holding a folder. I thought that was kind of rude, but honestly, I had no experience in this scenario. Doesn’t a Realtor normally extend his hand to a client? Apologize for being late?

  “Have you read it?” His voice once again vibrated through me.

  “What?”

  “The book you’re holding. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

  “Oh. Um . . . I have. I think . . . yes, in school, years ago.”

  Shivers ran through me as he approached, giving me a skeptical look as if he could see through my answer. That made me very uneasy. His eyes were like dark chocolate—the deepest shade of brown. As they scrolled once down the length of my body, my nipples hardened.

  “What made you pick out that book in particular?”

  Answering honestly, I said, “The spine.”

  “The spine?”

  “Yes. It’s black and red and coordinates very well with the room. It popped . . . stood out to me.”

  His mouth curved into a slight, cynical smile, although he didn’t laugh. He seemed to be studying me. His intensity made me want to just run. Forget this whole crazy endeavor. He was nothing like I’d pictured, based on the sweetness of that blue note.

  This was not what I’d signed up for.

  “At least you’re honest, I suppose.” He tilted his head. “Right?”

  I was sweating. “What?”

  “Honest.”

  He said it like he was challenging me.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

  He inched closer and took the book from my grasp, his fingers brushing against mine. The slight touch felt electrifying. I couldn’t help checking his left hand for a wedding band; there was none.

  “This was a controversial book in its time,” he said.

  “Why was that, again?” Again. Like I ever knew the answer in the first place.

  As I waited for his answer, I breathed in the rustic scent of his musk.

  Reed ran his long fingers along the other books on the shelf, not looking at me as he spoke. “It’s a satirical account of the social atmosphere in the South just before the turn of the century, but the author’s take on racism and slavery is interpreted differently by many. Thus the controversy.” He finally faced me. “You were probably taught that in school when you weren’t paying attention.”

  I swallowed.

  First discovery about Reed Eastwood: condescending asshole.

  Condescending asshole—who’s right. I hadn’t been paying attention.

  He placed the book back on the shelf and looked at me. “Do you read?”

  Every question came out of his mouth in a challenging way.

  “No. I . . . used to read romance novels. But I got out of the habit.”

  He cocked a mocking brow. “Romance novels?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me, Ms. Darling, how is it that someone who doesn’t read—aside from the occasional romance novel—comes to be interested in a penthouse property featuring a library that takes up twenty-five percent of the entire space?”

  I said the first thing that came to mind—anything to avoid awkward silence with this man.

  “I think the library adds character. Being surrounded by books is very sexy . . . cozy . . . I don’t know. There’s just something intriguing about it.”

  God, that was a stupid answer.

  He continued looking at me inquisitively, like he was expecting more. His gaze made me very uncomfortable, not only because he was so serious but also because he was so attractive. His dark hair was parted to the side, and unlike the rest of him, it wasn’t perfectly coiffed. He was also sporting three-day scruff on his chin. Reed had a dangerous energy about him that contradicted his proper attire. Something in his eyes told me he’d have no trouble bending me over and smacking my ass so hard that I’d feel it for days. At least, that’s where my mind went.

  Being in the quiet of the library, coupled with the power of his stare, was making me tense.

  He finally said, “Shall we tour the rest of the space?”

  “Yes . . . please. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Right,” he muttered.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the change of environment. The library had started to feel like a dungeon.

  Reed was equally impressive from the back. Watching the curve of his ass move against his tailored pants, I tried to fight the sexual thoughts in my head.

  He led me into the impressive kitchen. “We have mahogany floors. As you can see, it’s gourmet—designed with the chef in mind and recently renovated. Countertops are granite, center island is marble. Bosch stainless steel appliances. Everything is top-of-the-line. Cabinets are custom white lacquer. Do you cook, Ms. Darling?”

  Straightening my black sheath dress, I said, “I do, on occasion, yes.”

  “Great. Well, feel free to look around. You can let me know if you have any questions.”

  Was he starting to act normal with me? My pulse began to calm down a bit.

  I strolled around the massive kitchen, my heels clicking throughout the room. He leaned his muscular forearms against the center island, his body still as his eyes followed me. The break in his intensity had apparently been short-lived. It was back.

  Forcing my eyes away from him, I nodded. “Very nice.”

  “Questions?”

  “No.”

  “Ready to move on?”

  “Yes.”

  The next stop was the master suite. The room was dim, but the large window in the space that displayed a spectacular view of the city more than made up for that.

  “This is the master suite. Take a moment to look inside the generous walk-in closet. The en suite bath features a steam shower, Jacuzzi tub, and marble floors. And as you can see, this room has the best view in the entire place.”

  I took my time, looking at everything in a last-ditch effort to appear serious. He followed close behind me, which put my body on alert. I was highly sensitized to his sexuality, and I didn’t like it. This man was not nice. He was not Reed—or at least not the Reed I’d fantasized about. My Reed was supposed to give me renewed hope. This one was slowly sucking the life out of me.

  Once we circled back into the main space of the bedroom, he looked at me. “Questions? Comments?”

  I needed to just end this. Say something.

  “I’m thinking . . . um . . . that this might be too much space for me.”

  He sat down on the bed and crossed his arms, the ever-present folder still in his hand. “Too much space . . .”

  “Yes. I’m thinking it might be a lot for just me. I . . . work a lot. And . . . won’t have time to enjoy it.”

  He glared at me—like, full-on glared. “Oh, that’s right. The dog-surfing instruction.”

  Dog what?

  “Excuse me?”

  He tapped the folder with his index finger. “Your occupation. You filled out the application and submitted all of your information. That job sounds very involved—dog surfing. How does one come to teach that?”

  Oh shit.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  At this point, lying was simply easier than explaining the truth.

  I started speaking out of my ass. “As you said . . . it’s very . . . involved. It takes . . . a lot of schooling. A lot of practice.”

  “How does it work exactly?”

  How does dog surfing work? Beats the hell out of me.

  “You stand at the back of the board and . . . the dog stands on the front . . . and, um . . . he . . .” I lost my train of thought.
<
br />   “Surfs.” The word came out in a laugh.

  “Yes.”

  Reed stood up from the bed and approached me. “So it pays well?”

  Swallowing, I shook my head. “It doesn’t, no.”

  His questions came faster.

  “You have old money, then?”

  “No.”

  “If your occupation doesn’t allow you to afford a place like this, how do you plan on paying for it?”

  “I have other ways . . .”

  His stare became icy. “Really? Because your credit report says you don’t have ways. In fact, it pretty much says you don’t have a pot to piss in, Charlotte.” My name rolled off his tongue like an obscenity.

  He took a piece of paper out of the folder and held it in front of my eyes.

  “Where did you get that?” I hissed, snatching it from him. “You looked me up?”

  His tone turned angrier. “Do you really think I’m going to show someone a twelve-million-dollar apartment without a background check? You can’t be that naive.”

  Humiliation overwhelmed me. “But you can’t do a background check on me without my permission.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You gave me permission when you clicked the box to submit your viewing application. What a surprise, that fact seems to escape you.”

  I loosened my defenses in concession. “So you knew from the very beginning?”

  “Of course I knew,” he spat. “Let’s look at some of the other things you can’t seem to remember entering on your application.”

  Oh no.

  Reed opened the folder. “Occupation: dog-surfing instructor. Hobbies and interests: dogs and surfing. Previous employment: night manager at Deez Nuts.” He tossed the folder aside—more like whipped it across the room. The contents went flying.

  “Why are you here, Ms. Darling?”

  I literally peed in my pants a little. “I just wanted to see . . .”

  “See . . .” He gritted his bright-white teeth as he spoke.