A knock hit the front door before I could breathe.
Three sharp knocks.
I jumped so hard my phone slid from my hand.
Then the intercom buzzed.
I stared at it.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Finally I crossed the apartment, pressing the speaker with fingers that didn’t feel connected to me.
“Yes?”
“Miss Donovan?” a man said. Professional. Calm. “Delivery for you.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“It was ordered on your behalf.”
My pulse slammed against my ribs.
“Leave it downstairs.”
“I need a signature.”
Of course he did.
Because Nicholas never did anything halfway.
I threw on jeans over bare legs and kept his shirt on. It hung to mid-thigh, black silk against skin, still smelling faintly of him in a way that suddenly felt less like memory and more like a hand over my mouth.
In the lobby, a man in a dark suit stood by the glass front doors holding a matte black box tied with silver ribbon.
He was in his fifties, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with eyes too alert for an ordinary courier.
Leave a Comment