Page 284 of One More Kiss
Chapter5
AXEL
My breath cameout in a single white puff in front of me. New York was extra frigid today, though it might have been because I was about to enter the front doors of Margulis Realty. Cora had left my apartment that morning, and I could still taste her kisses on my lips. I felt both dreamy and reckless, like Romeo before he pulled all that crazy shit with Juliet’s family. Which was probably why I was here in the first place.
I knew a guy who worked for Allan. Entry level, but he was on the inside. Jake and I had gone to undergrad at Columbia together. I gave him $10 grand after we had our first windfall from when Trace squeezed Wall Street. He’d needed it to cover his mom’s funeral costs, and we’ve been linked ever since. There’s something about helping a guy pay for a funeral, I guess. I hadn’t planned on calling in a favor until Jake mentioned he worked on the bottom rung of Allan’s company. He knew the right people to get me on Allan’s schedule—under an alias, of course.
Just call me Spencer Wattford.
The inside of the building was slick and gray, like polished steel had sex with marble. Smackdab in the middle of the foyer was a ginormous glass sculpture, curling up out of the floor like tendrils of smoke. It was equal parts gaudy and fascinating—even though my first thought was that the sculpture represented the flames of the souls Allan burned in order to stay on his golden perch.
The air itself was blanketed with hushes, though I wasn’t sure if people were too afraid of Allan to make noise or if it came from reverence of the real estate industry. Allan’s company moving into this building had been a big deal in the early 2000s, apparently—not like I was in NYC then, or cared about his business, but Cora had told me the inaugural party here was one of her earlier memories—and well-documented in Time magazine.
And I guess, in a way, I could see it. The place was both cavernous and professional, artistic yet tasteful. But every last inch of it screamed money. The walls themselves were woven with the memories of the Caribbean vacations the Margulis family had taken so frequently Cora had viewed the Cayman Islands as her backyard as a child. The floor was polished with the millions of dollars of interest her father’s investments made in his sleep. The air itself pressed down on all corners with the immense weight of his wealth.
Don’t fucking freak yourself out. I jabbed at the silver dollar of an Up button at the elevator, my gaze wandering to the worn sleeves of my leather jacket. It was a stark contrast to the rest of my outfit—pressed navy pants, a crisp white button-up. But I didn’t own a formal coat.
I slid my leather jacket off, my gaze bouncing around the lobby. I knew I couldn’t go into the meeting with this sad, beat-up excuse for a jacket. Not that I’d ever say those things in front of it—I loved my jacket. It just couldn’t accompany me upstairs. I spied an ostentatiously large fern nearby—something like Jurassic Park foliage on steroids. Seemed like a good enough coat check for now. I folded my jacket as small as it would go and tucked it among the fronds. It would be there when I came back—I knew it. Nobody who came to this building would ever need to steal a shitty jacket from inside a fern.
The doors of the elevator slid open and I stepped inside, my likeness reflected back to me endlessly through the walls lined in mirrors. It was easy to get lost in the trappings of wealth—that was something I’d learned immediately at Columbia and at every soiree I attended with Cora. And it was when you got lost in the trappings that made it so easy for them take the upper hand.
But I wasn’t going to be distracted by the glitz and the marble. I might hide my jacket in his damn fern, but Allan wasn’t going to win. This whole display of wealth wasn’t going to distract or intimidate me. I’d calmly and firmly approach Allan about my unwavering intent to marry his daughter. Hell, I’d even invite him to the wedding. I was a nice guy, after all.
When the doors slid open, the emotionless face of a receptionist greeted me.
“Spencer Wattford,” I said in lieu of a greeting, affecting the same disinterested energy she doled out. You had to play the game in this world. I knew how to play the game. I wet my bottom lip and attempted a casual lean on her desk. “I’m here to meet with Mr. Margulis.”
Her gaze raked over me, prickly and disapproving. She consulted her computer, assessed me once more as though searching for my name tag. I knew better than to reiterate my identity. Reiteration was a sure mark of lying, or worse, desperation. Again, part of the game in this world. Lying was fine, but to be seen as desperate? There was no graver sin. I remained steadfast, my cool smile unwavering. As long as nothing about me betrayed the hammer of my heart, I was fine.
“One moment please.” She frowned, her nails clicking against her keyboard as she typed out something. Then she sighed, dragging her disapproving look my way once more. “He’ll see you.”
The receptionist led me down the long hallway. Through the windows, dusk tugged at the edges of daylight, impatient and sultry. Manhattan stretched like metal clockwork away from our fortieth-floor perch. At the end of the hallway, the receptionist knocked twice, waited for something, and then pushed the door open. She pinned me with a dead stare.
“Good luck.”
I mustered a smile and brushed past her, fighting the urge to return with snark. The office of Allan Margulis spread luxuriously around me. Two entire walls were floor to ceiling windows with the best view of New York City I’d ever seen. Unobstructed New York City. Photographers probably paid big bucks for this exact view. And this was Allan’s ho-hum everyday landscape.
“Mr. Margulis.” I forced my gaze off the glittering anthill of life beyond the windowpanes. “Great to see you again.”
Allan sat behind an enormous desk, a laptop pushed off to the side, papers stacked neatly into color-coded letter trays. His dark hair was immaculately arranged, in a constant state of Ken doll. He was a bear stuffed into an Armani suit, the same business casual shade of navy as mine, but probably sixty thousand dollars more expensive. He looked up at me, brows beginning a slow trek toward the center of his face.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Clarity sharpened his sage green eyes, the same hue as Cora’s but far more threatening.
“I set up an appointment with your office,” I said, donning my best neutral voice. I had to erase any hint of duh from my voice, because this man was .05 seconds away from kicking me out already.
He snatched up his cell phone from his desk with the practiced swipe of a jaguar. He checked something, then looked up at me. “So when did you legally change your name to Spencer Wattford?”
“Today.” Oops. Snark had a way of slipping out sometimes.
“Get out.”
“Allan, please.” I held up my palms, as if this might convince him of my harmlessness. “I only need five minutes of your time. Your receptionist blocked you off for thirty minutes with Spence. This is a win-win, because then you’ll be ahead of schedule.”
His jaw flexed and his blue stare turned cloudy; a storm was rolling in. “You have one minute. Starting now.”
“Great. I work best under pressure.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets, running my tongue back and forth inside my cheek as I struggled to remember the monologue I’d prepared. But all I could think was fuck you, which wasn’t helpful. I needed to both calm myself down and get him to loosen up slightly. Maybe offering him a Xanax first would get the ball rolling.
“Thank you,” I started, my heart hammering so loudly I wondered if he could hear it. “Your office is absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen a view as amazing as this.” I gestured unhelpfully to Manhattan through the window. “Honestly, this sort of thing is a goal for me—”
