Читать книгу Look At Me - Cara Lockwood - Страница 10

CHLOE PARK STARED at her laptop as she sat at her kitchen table in her roomy north Chicago condo. She fanned her face, desperately trying to get a breeze from her open window. Outside, the June heat pushed the temperature up beyond eighty-five degrees and the noon sun beat mercilessly down on her brick building. Soon, she’d have to break down and call someone to repair her AC, but not yet. Not with her bank account hovering near zero until the end of the week when she expected the arrival of her next freelance check. Chloe tried once more to focus on a work email, but the high-pitched squeal of a truck’s old brakes drifting in through her open window broke her concentration. She tried to ignore it, focusing on her screen and the last few sentences she’d need to write before she could hit Send. Then came the sound of metal clanging against metal.

“Really?” she asked her apartment, feeling as though everyone were conspiring against her to get no work done. She had at least five client social media accounts to update and a proposal to send out to a new corporate client who needed freelance social media updates now. But she couldn’t focus on any of that. Chloe abandoned the email, frustrated, as she swiped a bit of sweat from her brow. This heat! Ugh. She hated it. And the noise outside didn’t help, but she also knew if she closed that window her condo would turn into a brick oven. The clanging was replaced by the voices of men, made louder by the echo effect of the small alley.

She lived in a small building of just five units, each stacked on top of the other in an old factory renovated for condos but originally built in the 1920s. She lived at the top of their building, on floor four, in between an office building to the south and to the north a condo building that was being gutted and repurposed.

Unable to resist any longer, she grabbed the can of Coke from her table and went to her window, glancing out to see a small white moving truck in the alley beneath it, and one mover who struggled to slide a heavy metal ramp out from the open back.

New neighbor? she wondered, and immediately knew which one. Had to be the building across the street, the one she’d seen construction crews head in and out of as they gutted it and redesigned the three-flat. The building was made of solid brick with a faint Herron and Co. logo on the side. No windows faced her, except three on the top floor and a single lone window on the second. Those had been the old offices of the executives running the company. She heard it had once been a cold storage facility back in the early 1900s. This explained the garage doors below narrow enough to fit the horse-drawn carriages that came to pick up deliveries, and the first floor, which was entirely bricked in. Someone told her a condo owner decided to renovate the fourth floor back in the 1980s, adding in windows that looked out on the alley between them. Still, the old icehouse was one of many reasons she loved Chicago, where new lived beside old, modern beside antique and old buildings like this one found new life.

The neighboring building was big enough for three condos, but as far as she knew, the entire building had been empty since she’d moved in eight months ago. There’d been construction crews coming and going, and the rumor from her downstairs neighbor—a Realtor—was that the entire building was being converted into one massive home: no doubt for one very rich couple or a very rich family of ten, since the three-story brownstone could easily hold ten bedrooms and five bathrooms. From her floor, she could see straight into the top floor of the building, where she saw a spacious living room with dark-stained pine floors and had a full view of the expansive rooftop deck: covered in wood, complete with a built-in fire pit and benches. Last week, gardeners had arrived with potted plants, and so the entire deck was in bloom with white and yellow flowers.

Now she studied the movers. None of them looked up. Chloe had gotten used to not being seen from her vantage point. People just didn’t glance up beyond the second floor of her building. Chloe sank into the little bench at her bay window, sipping her soda and watching the men work. Because it was so hot, Chloe could only bear to wear a tank top with thin straps and a pair of old gym shorts. She hadn’t bothered putting on makeup, because she worked from home and the humidity would just melt it off anyway. She’d swept her dark, nearly black hair up in a hastily made ponytail, but didn’t care. She doubted the movers would be looking up. She felt invisible on her perch. She took another sip, watching the burly workers below as they waited to unload their cargo. They seemed not able to get in.

Then a brand-new Maserati roared up to the back of the building, steered by a man in his early 30s. He parked in the alley, not caring about a proper parking space. She guessed a man with a Maserati could afford a parking ticket. He popped out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Hang on. Hello. Tall, built like a linebacker, with muscles she could see from where she sat. What was he—a boxer? A fitness trainer? No trainer she knew could afford a Maserati.

He ran a hand through a thick head of dirty-blond hair as he dropped his phone in his pocket. He instantly started directing the movers.

She glanced at his flat stomach hugged by his skintight shirt and thought: Bet he’s gay. She didn’t know any straight guys who worked that hard on their abs. And she knew next to no rich men who did. After all, why bother, when their wallets could speak for themselves?

But...if he is straight...mmm, mama. He had just the right amount of blond goatee covering his chin. She saw no ring on his left hand. Then he grabbed keys from his pocket and opened the back door. Could he be...the new neighbor? He certainly acted like it. And the Maserati fit the profile of someone who’d just bought a whole building for himself.

She willed him to look up, to see her, but he didn’t. Not that he would.

No one bothers to see me up here. The benefits of being invisible meant that she could spy with abandon.

The new neighbor was gorgeous, with a capital G. And had more money than God if he was going to live in that building all by himself. Lincoln Park real estate was anything but cheap. Just ask Chance the Rapper, who lived two streets over. Not that money alone really spoke to Chloe. Sure, she wouldn’t mind having more of it, but her Korean dad and Irish mom raised her with Midwestern values. They told her to work hard, keep her head down and not be flashy.

A strand of her nearly black hair fell into her face. She blew it off her sticky forehead and fumbled with her tank-top spaghetti strap that kept falling off her shoulder. She watched as the new neighbor directed the movers, as they unloaded the truck—a big gray sectional coming first, as they maneuvered it into the open door across the way.

At least I’m not moving a couch wearing a jumpsuit in this heat, she thought, fanning herself and taking a sip of her now-lukewarm soda.

A few minutes later she saw them maneuver the same couch into the third-floor living room. She realized then she could see the entire living room, the fireplace, a bit of the kitchen and even, when the bedroom door was open, a little of that as well. And now the shades were up and she saw movers walking about the space below. She watched the new neighbor in the alley pick up a few boxes himself, his biceps rippling beneath the weight. What kind of billionaire lifts his own boxes? Now Chloe’s curiosity was piqued. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe that wall of muscle was the billionaire’s personal assistant? Yet something told her no. It was the way he carried himself. This man was in charge, and not just of the move.

The intriguing man disappeared into the staircase. Chloe’s phone dinged then, an incoming message, an email alert. She absently went to get her phone, and scrolled through her messages. Spam, actually. She dismissed it and returned to the window, noticing that the mystery neighbor popped up at the top floor and walked the boxes into the living room. Doesn’t hurt to watch, does it? Not that they’ll see me anyway.

He hadn’t noticed her, and yet she was close enough to see his forehead start to glisten a little with sweat. For once, she was glad of her invisibility cloak. Now she could see his face a bit better as he stood at the window, looking down. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his forehead, and she could see his eyes weren’t brown. Blue, maybe? Or green? Hard to tell. He swiped at the bead of sweat on his temple.

Wish I could wipe that off...with my tongue, she found herself thinking, and then giggled to herself at the ludicrous idea as she clutched her phone in her sweaty palm. Where did that come from? It had to be because she was newly single, she figured. Suddenly, everybody was a possibility. As she finished off her can of soda, she watched the new neighbor dump a box in the living room and then run an arm across his own sweaty brow. Then, to her utter surprise, he whipped off his tee.

Oh...my. Hello there, sexy. She hadn’t seen such an amazing chest before except on the giant posters of her gym. He had abs, yes, and that amazing little vee stretching down into his low-slung khakis. His well-defined pecs and chiseled arms seemed like they should be wielding a hammer.

She also noticed this bad boy had tattoos. A big one across his right arm and shoulder. What was it? She couldn’t make it out. She pulled up her phone’s camera and then zoomed in, trying to get a better look. Was the tattoo part of a wing? She wasn’t sure.

Okay, what bazillionaire lifted his own boxes and had tattoos? Chloe shook her head. The new neighbor was all kinds of mystery rolled into some serious eye candy. He patted his face with his own shirt, and Chloe felt like she’d suddenly been taken out of time. Everything she watched seemed to be on a slow-motion reel, even as her sexy new neighbor grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig. She watched his Adam’s apple bob and suddenly wished he’d dump the whole bottle on his head.

What’s wrong with you? This isn’t a male revue, for goodness’ sake. Chloe tried to mentally shake herself, but she still sat at the window anyway, transfixed. She clutched the phone in her hand. Should she take a picture? She was tempted. Then the dazzling neighbor moved away from the window and out of sight.

Dammit. Where did the bad boy with the abs go?

She pushed forward, trying to see, and her spaghetti strap slipped again from her shoulder. She wore no bra, since it was too hot for one in her opinion, and the fabric of her shirt slung dangerously low, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She was too focused on getting one more glimpse of her Nordic god neighbor.

Where had he gone? She couldn’t see him at the windows anymore. The door to the roof creaked open then, and she saw him head out on the slate tile of the patio. Now he was even closer, a perfect place to take a picture. Should she? Her friends would never believe such a hunky man had moved in. And what if he was famous? An actor, maybe? From Chicago Fire or one of the dozens of regular shows that filmed in downtown Chicago?

She held up her phone, debating whether to take a shot, when he suddenly glanced up and their eyes met. For a second, she froze from sheer shock. Surely he wasn’t actually seeing her. Nobody saw her up here. But he gave a slight nod of his head, a little smile, and she realized he had seen her. He held his hand up in a wave.

Horrified, Chloe scrambled to hide her phone, but the sudden movement sent the smartphone slipping out of her sweaty grasp. She watched helplessly as her phone—brand-new—toppled out of her open window. She leaned out of the window, but it was too late. Her prized possession was taken by gravity. It flipped downward to the alley below, missing his shiny new Maserati by inches, landing between it and the moving truck with a sickening crack on the asphalt.

She glanced back up at the neighbor, who seemed surprised, but was watching her—not the phone. He was transfixed, frozen, and that was when she realized—too late—she was hanging out of her window, practically falling out of her tank top, the fabric so low she was flashing the man her nipples.

Chloe, mortified, pulled up her shirt, ducked away from her window and retreated to her kitchen, her heart pounding.

That’s just great. Throw your phone out the window. Flash the neighbor. Maybe he’ll throw you some Mardi Gras beads.

The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks. Maybe he’s gay and doesn’t care. At least, she could hope for that. After a few minutes, Chloe felt like an idiot standing barefoot in her kitchen. She wondered if he was still there. Carefully, she tiptoed from her kitchen, and then kicked herself. He can’t hear me, she scolded, and tried to catch a glimpse far from her window. But when she looked out, she didn’t see the bad boy anymore. She slunk closer to the window, trying to hide herself behind a side curtain. Nope. The deck below her sat empty except for the potted plants.

Then she remembered her phone, dropped four stories onto the ground below. She needed that—it was her lifeline!

She didn’t have time to change. What if someone stepped on it? What if someone stole it? She roused herself out of her stupor and moved to her front door. She jammed her feet into flip-flops and headed for the staircase. She swung open the back door ready to jump into the alley and nearly collided with...her new neighbor.

He was holding her mangled and decidedly cracked phone in his hand. “Uh... I think you dropped this?”

Standing in front of him, she realized now how very tall he was. His muscled shoulders were all power. And he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. And she was more than aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Uh... Yeah. I...” I just flashed you a second ago. Sorry about that. “Uh... Thanks.” She grabbed the phone, with its shattered face and bent corner. It still lit up when she touched it. That was good, at least.

“I’m... Jackson Drake.” He extended a strong hand.

She took his hand dumbly and shook it. His palm was smooth and big. The man had big hands, bear paws almost. What was it that they said about big hands? His sharp blue eyes never left her.

“Looks like we’ll be neighbors.” A slow smile curved his lips. He had nice teeth, too. Model-white.

So he did own that whole building. What was a billionaire doing...fetching her phone? She happened to glance at his wrist and saw the gleaming Rolex there. Yep, definitely rich.

“And you are...?”

Idiot. Didn’t even tell him your name. “Chloe... Chloe Park.”

“Nice to meet you, Chloe. Do you mind if I call you by your first name? I feel like after today, we need to be on a first-name basis.” He grinned a sly, wolfish smile.

Still, her face flamed at the reference of her spilling out of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to having neighbors. I’m not even in the habit of shutting my blinds. That building has been abandoned for so long.”

“Don’t change on my account.” He took a slight step closer. His bare chest filled up most of her field of vision. She wondered if his skin felt as smooth as it looked. Something told her he wasn’t gay. Gay men didn’t flirt like this with her.

Chloe again lost the ability to speak. Pretty soon, he’d start thinking she was slow. Chloe felt a tingle at the back of her knees. “Park...” he said, blue eyes never leaving hers. “Is that Korean?”

“Dad’s Korean. Mom’s Irish. You know, a living representation of the melting pot. They live in Seattle, but I see them a couple of times a year...” What was she yammering on about? She always did that when she was nervous.

“Hey! Drake!” called one of the movers carrying a large box. “This going to the first floor or...?”

Jackson hesitated, seeming to want to linger. Or maybe that was just because he didn’t want to deal with moving. Moving day was always terrible, no matter how rich you were, Chloe supposed.

“Well, I see you’re busy, but, uh...thanks for the phone. It’s my lifeline.” She held up her battered phone. If her lifeline still worked, that is.

Jackson nodded. He couldn’t be more confident in his own skin, standing at her back alley door. But then, why wouldn’t he be? He was gorgeous and rich. He was probably used to women falling at his feet. Or falling out of their tops, she thought ruefully.

“Until...next time then. Chloe.” He nodded once at her, and she was held there, for a second, trapped in his ice-blue eyes. Eventually, she remembered she was a sweaty, unshowered mess and wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup—or a bra. Her girls were probably bouncing all over the place. Self-consciousness consumed her. She crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest.

“Till next time,” she squeaked, like a mouse, and retreated. Even as the alley door closed, she felt her heart pounding.