I’m the best talent scout in America, and I know it’s why Brock’s been breathing down my neck. He needs me. And I need him. So, if I have to adhere to his quirky request to stay at his daughter’s place, that’s what I’ll do.
I shake Brock’s giant paw. “Thank you so much, sir.”
“Please, call me Brock.”
“Brock.” I leave his office and take the elevator down to the lobby with my bags in tow.
The doors barely slide open before a man in a suit says, “Mr. Brentwood? I’m Brock’s driver, Billy. I’ll be taking you to Miss Sydney’s place.”
“Lead the way, Billy.”
I follow him outside and slide into his black sedan. He heads down the street, and a few minutes later, pulls up to the side of a smaller building, not even three blocks away. I could have walked. He shuts off the engine, and I step out of the car before he can open my door. I don’t need the red-carpet treatment, even though Brock insists.
If I wanted a red carpet, I would have made the man put me up in a five-star hotel. However, I think living with his daughter is a terrific way to get to know the legend behind Reilly Records.
Billy retrieves my luggage from the trunk and sets it on the sidewalk while I stare up at the black, trendy warehouse-style building. I can already picture her apartment with brick walls and exposed ceilings.
I shake Billy’s hand and head inside.
A doorman greets me and directs me to a receptionist behind a marble counter. Once I give her my identification and it’s confirmed I’m not a random nut, she sends me on my way.
“Sydney has the top floor. Go into the elevator and type in the code 6-1-6-3. I’ll call her and tell her you’re on your way up.”
I thank her and head into the elevator. As soon as I reach the top floor, the doors open into a hallway with a front door leading to a penthouse suite wide open, and I guessed completely… wrong. Nothing is exposed except the gorgeous view of sapphire sky and Texas terrain outside the glass wall in front of me. A stone wall with a humongous fireplace is to my left and warm earth tones paint the surrounding walls.
“Hello,” I call out, wheeling my luggage across the wide wood planks toward the center of the large room filled with southwestern furnishings.
There’s no answer.
I gaze up at the antler chandelier that drops from the lofty ceilings above the charcoal-colored sectional and wait for a response. Nothing.
The kitchen is off to my right, and I smell the makings of something delicious coming from that direction.
“Hello. It’s me, Tobias Brentwood.” Before I can call out again, a brown-haired goddess is standing before me, gazing at me with familiar gray eyes.
My heart stops beating.
This is the same woman I searched for last night.
Sydney.
Chapter 3
Sydney
* * *
I’m not very hospitable right now. After I pleasured myself to the memory of Tobias’ face last night—something I’m not proud of but thoroughly enjoyed—I decided the best way to get through this forced-roommate situation is to hate the man standing in my living room.
To say witnessing his hallway hummer confused me is an understatement. So I wrangled Callie, and we left without looking back. Journaling my annoyance suggested that I was most annoyed over the possibility I might’ve been a little envious it was her and not me.
It’s downright preposterous to feel that way, so despising him will fix the problem. If he wants to do scandalous things the minute he arrives in town, so be it. Why shouldn’t he enjoy the perks of his good looks? I’m sure women throw themselves at him daily.
He blinks at me, most likely trying to find the words to explain his man-whoring. As I ogle his broad shoulders imprisoned beneath a black dress shirt, it occurs to me I don’t really think that’s my fundamental problem with him.
My problem is that he’s gorgeous. Plain and simple. All that tuggable dark hair and those plush lips make me want to rip my clothes off and let him feast upon my body. I’m not sure I’m ready to throw myself at his big feet, begging him to take me to my bedroom.
“Rule number one,” I start, wanting to lay down some ground rules. Who cares if this guy is hotter than the Texas sun in July? I can keep a level head around him.
“I’m sorry?” His gaze drifts across my face, stopping on my mouth. “Rules?”
“Yes. If you’re going to live here, we need clear rules.” Remembering my manners, I tilt my lips up and head back toward the oven to check on the cookies I’m baking. “You can do whatever you want, just don’t bring your skanks around.” The last part slips out before I can stop it, but I never claimed my manners were impeccable.