Chapter 19

MELODY

Tuesday

Work feels odd today.

Yesterday, it felt the same.

It was a busier-than-usual Monday, and I diligently sailed through it by skipping lunch and my Pilates class before going home and hitting the bed at nine.

Things have been weird since I returned from Connecticut.

The trip was uneventful.

I drove back satisfied with the overall experience after leaving a generous tip to show my gratitude to the hostess.

Sunday evening was quiet, with no phone calls or text messages.

I used the opportunity to get ready for Monday and went to sleep early, but sleep eluded me.

I talked to Alice last night, yet our conversation was short because she had an early morning.

No sign from Thomas––I wasn't surprised much––or Jax––I didn't think I'd hear from him––but having his lighter in my purse without him trying to call me only cemented the idea that he is pissed.

Fantastic.

I could live in peace without hearing from Thomas Everett, but Jax London is a different story.

I've given him too much already, andthe fact that he is no longer interested in me after vehemently telling me I belonged to him feels horribly wrong.

So, the first thing I do after glancing in the mirror this morning and running a critical eye over my sleevelesswhite dress, fitted blue blazer, yellow scarf, and diamond earringsisto call Aretha's office.

We have an understanding.

I don't need to talk to her in person to confirm my second weekly session––I just need to tell her that I'm coming.

A text message would suffice, but I need to use my voice so I can get reacquainted with who I really am.

A woman who has her shit together.

The phone line rings a little hollow before I leave a voicemail message.

"Hi. Melody Hill here. I'll see you tonight…" I pause for a second before I go on."I might not be able to make it on Thursday. So… Anyway…" I stumble a little. "I hope my message finds you well. Uh… See you at seven. If for any reason you can't accommodate me, call me. Or text me. Or call Mina."

My jaw tenses.

Why am I droning on like that?

"Okay. Bye."

Finally, I end the call and push out a long exhale.

What is wrong with me?

I toss my phone into my purse, lift my coffee to my lips, and sip the flavorful drink.

My lipstick remains intact––I check it in the mirror while brushing a strand of hair away from my face.

I've been a nervous wreck these past two days, as if the conversation with Jax London had thrown a wrench into my life plans.

I'm sure he didn't want to make me feel insecure, but Iponderedhis words way too many times.

I love my life––I always have––yet now I see it as a trap. He was right about the men in my life. And there are other aspectstoo.

I'm locked in place.

I have money and recognition, but there are soul-sucking things in my life.

I like Dr. Aretha Stenson and appreciate her expertise, but needing someone in my life to show me the way because I can no longer make sense of who I am and what I want, or I have no time for introspection, or I'm just blind to too many things, annoys me to no end.

"Enough of this," I mutter, picking up my purse and calling my driver.

I need to take control of my life and reinstate the good rules governing my existence.

Anything that can give me a boost today is welcome, whether it's a limousine ride, shopping therapy, or having lunch with a friend. Which is hard to accomplish since Alice is out of town and everybody else is working.

I can go back to that website guaranteeing dates with hot millionaires.

Yeah, right.

Hot millionaires are into mail-order brides, not women like me, but it's a way to keep myself occupied while figuring out my life.

With that thought in mind, I exit my apartment.

My driver is waiting outside as I pivot in that direction when someone's figure catches the corner of my eye.

I'm so not in the mood for a conversation, especially at seven o'clock in the morning.

I hurry to the entrance, quick steps trailing the marble floors behind me, suggesting I might have no choice but to stop when a loud male voice booms.

"Miss Hill?"

Oh, the landlord.

Pushing a fake smile to my lips, I spin around.

I think I know what this is all about.

This must be about last Friday when the two cop cars were parked outside.

Myron Smith, a gray-haired man in his late seventies, stares at me with beaded eyes, which appear even smaller behind his thick glasses.

He's short and appears frail in his expensive suite, yet despite his feeble looks, he runs his real estate empire with an iron hand.

A tycoon in the making, he's renting out several apartments in the building where he and I live––the house he inherited from his parents.

He's a greedy man obsessed with rules.

"Oh. Hi," I say, expressionless.

"Do you have a moment?" he says, locking my eyes.

"Not really," I say in the same dry voice and with the same fake smile. "I'm late for work. Is there a problem?"

A tenant, the man occupying the other apartment on my floor, Marlow––or Marlowe––Jones,I think,punches in the code and enters the building.

We both go quiet and step to the side so he can walk past us.

If I remember correctly, Marlow––or Marlowe––Jones is in his thirties and a trust fund manager.

Frankly, I wasn't paying attention when Rosalie Smith, the landlord's wife, who is younger andnicerthan her husband but has very little say in how he runs his business, told me about the new tenant.

I never got to meet him, yet she dutifully showed me a picture of him, like a proud mama eager to find a son-in-law for her daughter.

I'm much younger than her daughter, who is married and has her own family, by the way, but she felt like I needed a little help in the love department.

She also thought he might be a good match.

Now that I see the man in person, I run a curious gaze over him despite having Myron next to me.

Marlowe––I think it's Marlowe––must've jogged around the neighborhood this morning. I can't blame him.

The sun shines brightly, and spring is in the air.

I should've done the same.

I should've gone for a jog and worked up a sweat instead of moping around and spending an hour selecting my outfit.

Ormaybehe went to the gym this morning.

The exclusive health club around the corner is pricey but worthwhile if you're looking for a hookup.

My neighbor is tall and buffed up butnotbiggerthan Jax London.He'd surely tower over Thomas, but that's beyond the point.

He wears gray sweatpants, and I try hard not to look below his waist. Everybody knows these sweatpants are not very good at keeping their private parts private.

He wears a tank top and a damp towel around his neck, and his skin glistens with sweat.

His eyes express worry that he might not make it to work on time.

So much for making an impression on him.

His gaze briefly grazes me–it's unclear whether he's noticed me or not–before he interacts with Myron, who greets him and hesitates to introduce him to me.

They exchange pleasantries while I grow restless.

What the fuck.

"I'm sorry. I don't want to keep you," Myron says before realizing he's keeping meas welland glances at me. "Miss Hill here too."

Marlowe shoots me one of those impossible-to-read, almost hostile glances I have become accustomed to.

Whether I meet these men in the boardroom or a social setting and dating them is not always out of the question, their attitude is always reserved and cautious, despite being some of the dirtiest motherfuckers around.

Or, so I've heard.

He doesn't make eye contact and seems uninterested in me as a woman.

I bite the bullet and introduce myself, having the same attitude toward him.

I've also heard that they sometimes, not always, like spiteful women. The ones that are hard to impress.

His coffee-colored eyes glint with surprise when I say the name of the firm I work for.

"Oh. You are the ‘Melody Hill,' " he says, his voice flat, but even so, I consider it a boost for my self-esteem.

I have no idea what made him say that, but it must have been something good—professionally, I mean.

"Yes, that's me. I'd love to chat some more, but I'm sure you're in a rush," I say, taking the lead, dismissing him, and casting a concerned look at my landlord. "Can we talk about this some other time? My driver is waiting."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Marlowe giving me another look, a spark of interest flashing through his gaze.

If nothing else, maybe I've made it on his ‘to hit on her maybe once' list.

He talks before Myron does.

"Sure. We can do that," he says, prompting me to move my focus back tohim.

He doesn't waste another second, turning his muscular back to me and showing me his swagger before vanishing.

I wasn't talking to him, and my landlord didn't take the hint as I whipped my gaze to him.

What is it with these men?

"It won't be long," the man in front of me says as I try hard not to tap my foot impatiently and lift my eyebrows instead.

Less noisy.

"It's about last Friday. A guest of yours had brought the cops to our door. You know the house rules."

I nod silently, trying to figure out the best answer.

"He wasn't my guest. He delivered my food. I'm sorry about the police cars. They must've flashed their lights because he was parked illegally."

It's his turn to slowly nod.

"Yes. And that wouldn't have happened hadhemoved swiftly after delivering your food."

I hold my head high and square my shoulders.

"I have no control over that. Plus, we had a disagreement over money.Hethought I hadn't tippedhimenough. You know… Some of these people can be quite belligerent about it."

Lying through my teeth this morning.

He reads my eyes, but I'm unwilling to apologize or spend another second with him.

"Would that be all?"

"Make sure it doesn't happen again," he says coldly. "Have a good day," he adds curtly, making me feel like a grounded teenager before he spins around and walks away.

This is not howI envisioned the start of my day.