“I didn’t.”
“Perhaps another concierge lost it.”
“They didn’t.”
I gritted my teeth. Fuck honey. I wanted to shove this guy’s head in a bucket full of raw vinegar, but I didn’t have the time for petty violence or arguments.
“Let me up, and this is yours.” I slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.
The concierge stared at me, stone-faced. He didn’t touch the money.
I added another hundred to the pile. Nothing.
Three hundred. Four hundred.
Goddammit. What was wrong with him? No one said no to Benjamin.
“Ten thousand cash.” That was all I had in my wallet. “That’s tax-free money if you let me up for just a few minutes.”
I could bypass him physically, but without a resident key card, the elevator wouldn’t budge, and I wouldn’t be able to open the door to the stairwell.
“Sir, this is unnecessary and inappropriate,” he said calmly. “I do not accept bribes. Now, I must insist you vacate the premises, or security will have to escort you out.”
He nodded at the pair of Hulk-sized security guards who’d seemingly popped up out of nowhere.
Sloane’s building would be guarded by two stone mountains and the only incorruptible concierge in Manhattan.
However, I wasn’t leaving without seeing her, which meant I needed a plan C. I scanned the lobby, searching for another plausible avenue when my eyes fell on a small plaque mounted on the wall.
The Lexington: An Archer Group Property.
My pulse jumped. Archer Group.
There was only one person who could help me in that moment. Asking him for a favor wasn’t the smartest idea considering I’d just burned down one of his properties, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
One call to an annoyed Alex Volkov and one very bitter concierge later, I stepped out into Sloane’s hall.
Surprisingly, Alex hadn’t given me a hard time, though I suspected he was saving that for our meeting. But I’d worry about that tomorrow; I had something more urgent to attend to.
I rapped my knuckles against Sloane’s door. No answer, but she was in there. I could feel it.
Another knock, my gut contorting into more and more knots as the minutes passed. It wasn’t like her not to answer the door. Perhaps the concierge called up to warn her I was coming?
I was about to call her just to see if I could hear her phone ring when I heard it—a tiny rustle of movement that cut off as quickly as it’d started. If I’d shifted, or if the elevator had dinged in that moment, I wouldn’t have heard it, but I did, and it was enough to pour fresh energy into my efforts.
A third, harder knock. “Open the door, sweetheart. Please.”
I wasn’t sure if she heard me, but an eternity later, footsteps approached and the door swung open.
My heart stuttered beneath the blow of seeing Sloane again. The past week had felt like months, and I drank her in like a lost wanderer stumbling onto a desert oasis. She was bare-faced and in silk pajamas, her hair twisted into a bun, her eyes wary as she kept a hand on the doorknob.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
The seconds ticked by, tainted by the bitterness of our last conversation.
“Can I come in?” I finally asked. It’d been a long time since we were this uncomfortable around each other, and the tension cast a shadow over the entire hall.
“Now isn’t a good time,” Sloane said, avoiding my eyes. “I have a lot of work to do.”
“On the Sunday after Christmas?” Silence.
I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to piece together the right words in the right way. There were a thousand things I wanted to tell her, but in the end, I opted for simple and honest.
“Sloane, I didn’t mean what I said last week,” I said softly. “About you having no emotions. I was frustrated and upset, and I took it out on you.”
“I know.”
I faltered; I hadn’t expected that. “You do?”
“Yes,” Sloane said stiffly. She went a teeny bit pink around her ears. “I should apologize too. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard right after the fire. That was…that wasn’t what you needed at the time.”
“You were just trying to help.” I cleared my throat, still feeling ill at ease. “And I’m sorry for not reaching out on Christmas. Honestly, I was too ashamed to just call you like nothing had happened, and I figured you wouldn’t want to discuss the fire during the holiday…” It wasn’t the best excuse, but none of my recent actions could be classified as smart.
“You weren’t the only one who didn’t reach out. It’s a two-way street.” Sloane slid her pendant along its chain.
“Maybe we can have a belated celebration,” I said. “The ice rinks are still open.”
