The Heir's Disgrace (Doormen of the Upper East Side Book 1) by August Jones

Author:August Jones [Jones, August]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-04-23T00:00:00+00:00

This might sound irresponsible in the extreme, but I’ve kept my phone off since riding up the service elevator after leaving Chelsea the other night. It’s been plugged in and charged on Olivier’s kitchen counter, but every time I walked past it and felt the itch—the idea of more bad news or tough conversations stayed my hand.

But once I’m back at work, I have to turn it on. While it powers up, I see Babs and Jeremy out on their way to dinner and let in 609 with her two Yorkies—the bane of the entire sixth floor’s existence.

My second least favorite tenant also makes a rare appearance, so absorbed in her phone, she doesn’t even acknowledge me as a human as I open the door for her and summon the elevator.

She’s young, maybe my age, and an author of one breakout novel. People like her come and go from this building all the time, but they usually have basic manners. Unless she’s some kind of fucking genius, which—who knows—maybe she is—she won’t earn out her advance, or her next book will flop, and she’ll end up leaving the Upper East Side because she doesn’t belong up here anymore than I do.

I fantasize about her “moving out” day often.

Olivier’s due to leave soon, and every ding of the elevator behind me has my heart rate jacked, but I chance a glance at my phone and wince at the sheer number of missed calls and texts.

The majority of them, interestingly, are from my roommate Christian. Silas left a voicemail and one text that says, “call me back,” Jericho left one text message that I’ll look at once Olivier leaves, and Peggy left five text messages demanding to know the name and number of the plumber, where the hell I am, who the hell I think I am, and two half-assed apologies and gentler requests to get back with her ASAP. I know better than to fall for those, though. Fool me once, as they say…

The elevator doors slide open.

I rise because I know it’s him. I don’t know how or why, but I’m right. It’s an Olympic feat of strength not to reach up and trace each brutal hickey I left on his neck above the crisp white collar of his Oscar de la Renta shirt. His suit is bespoke, dove gray, and a perfect fit. His shoes are Prada. They look like black suede, but they’re probably made of something much rarer than that. He’s stunning. Angels would weep at the sight of him. So could I, I think.

Summoning my voice from somewhere, I say, “Impeccable. As always, Mr. Arnaud.”

“You’re too kind, Jack.” And yet he preens a moment, giving me profile. An over-the shoulder, a smolder with hands in pockets, modeling the suit in that sleek Manhattan way I never mastered. Because I’m not sleek. And I’m not pretty.

“Do you have the ring?” I ask.

He pats his pant pocket. “Yes.”

I lift a brow. “Any chance she’ll say no?”

“I can hope.”

“Don’t hope,” I say.

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