Chapter 2

He was gone. That was it. Curtain closed. Well, that was entertaining while it lasted.

My stop was next, so I made my way toward the same door he’d just stormed out of. My foot nudged something that felt like a thick hockey puck, making me glance down.

My pulse quickened. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Rude had apparently left a part of himself behind.

He dropped his phone.

His freaking phone!

He’d shot out of the train so quickly it must have slipped from his hand. I had, unfortunately, been too preoccupied admiring the way his fitted slacks clung to that very sculpted backside to notice. I picked the iPhone up; it felt warm in my hands. The leather case had a distinct scent—his scent. I almost brought it closer for a sniff before stopping myself.

Covering my mouth, I looked around. If my life had a soundtrack, a sitcom laugh track would’ve played right about now. Nobody seemed to be watching me. Nobody noticed that I now held Mr. Designer Suit’s phone.

What was I supposed to do with this?

I slipped it into the side pouch of my faux snakeskin bag, feeling like I was carrying classified government intel as I climbed up into the sunlight of downtown Manhattan. The phone kept buzzing—texts, calls. It even rang once. But I wasn’t about to touch it again until I had some caffeine in my system.

I grabbed my regular coffee from the Turkish guy on 56th Street and sipped as I walked the three blocks to my job. I was running behind schedule, so I figured I’d wait until my lunch break to explore the mystery that was Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Rude.

At my desk, I pulled out the phone. The battery was barely alive, so I plugged it into my charger. My job wasn’t exactly glamorous—I was the assistant to Clarice Bordeaux, a legendary advice columnist. The voice behind Clarice Knows, a daily feature that had been in print since people used AOL CDs.

Lately, Clarice had been throwing me a bone here and there, asking me to try drafting a few responses. She said she was testing me for “growth potential,” but she never actually published any of them. Clarice’s answers were all about balance, sensitivity, and endless disclaimers. Meanwhile, mine? Let’s just say I liked getting to the damn point. Which is probably why my write-ups never saw the light of day.

Still, every now and then, I couldn’t resist replying to the rejects. The questions that got tossed because they were “too inappropriate” or “not good for the brand.” But they were honest, and those people deserved something—anything—back.

I found out my fiancé watches tentacle p**n. I can’t look him in the eye. What should I do? – Melanie, Bronx

Answer: Try it. If it freaks you out, run. If you like it, congratulations—you just got kinkier.

I slept with my boss after drinks. He’s married. Now he’s acting weird. Should I tell his wife? – Cassie, Brooklyn

Answer: Only if you want to be unemployed and publicly shamed. Or, better yet, mind your damn business and stop spreading your legs for taken men.

I’m pregnant and I’m not sure if it’s my husband’s or my trainer’s. I know. I’m a horrible person. – Alina, Queens

Answer: You are. But hey, honesty’s the first step. Next step? A paternity test and a cold slap from karma.

There was something energizing about dishing out raw truth. It kickstarted my mornings better than espresso. By noon, the mysterious phone was fully charged, so I took it with me to the kitchen during my break. I had ordered Vietnamese for both Clarice and me—her idea, not mine.

Once she left to take her post-lunch “editing nap,” I finally had ten minutes alone to snoop.

Miraculously, there was no lock screen. Who the hell didn’t password-protect their phone in this city?

First stop: Photos. There weren’t many, and they gave me almost nothing to go on. The first image was of a tiny, scruffy dog in a knit sweater. A Shih Tzu, maybe? Then came a pair of bare breasts with a glass of red wine tucked between them. Pale, plump, silicone. Gross. More dog pics. Then, oddly, a snapshot of five older women doing synchronized stretches in a gym. What? I giggled. The last photo caught my breath—it was him, looking relaxed in a t-shirt, smiling next to an old woman in a rocking chair. His hair was messy. He looked warm. Human, even. Still stupid-hot.

I had five minutes left before I had to return to my desk.

There was no email synced to the phone. So, I opened the contacts and decided to call the first name that popped up: Marcy.

⸻

“WELL, WELL, IF IT ISN’T CHRISTIAN MERRICK.” The woman’s voice was syrupy with sarcasm. “Run through the entire city’s socialites already, have you? Remind me, wasn’t I the one who told you I wasn’t here to stroke your ego?”

A horn blared. I heard a car door slam and a faint shout about avoiding the tunnel because “the air made her swell.”

“So, what now, Christian?”

“Umm, actually. This isn’t Christian. My name is Lena.”

“Lenny?”

“No, Lena. Like…LEE-nuh. My dad liked names that sounded exotic, though we’re from Jersey.”

Silence.

“Okay, Lena-from-Jersey. Why are you calling from Christian Merrick’s phone?”

Christian Merrick. Of course his name was sexy. Of course it sounded like he owned private jets and crushed champagne grapes between his pecs.

“Long story short, I found this phone on the subway this morning. I think he dropped it getting off. He had slicked-back dark hair, navy suit, oversized Rolex. Sound familiar?”

“Gorgeous, cold stare, walks like he’s a goddamn king?”

“Exactly him.”

“You want my advice, sweetheart?”

I grabbed a pen. “Yes?”

“Are you near the B line?”

“Pretty close.”

“Hop on. Take it down to Flatbush Avenue.”

“Okay…”

“Walk past the donut shop, cross the street, then go three blocks east to where the sidewalk ends.”

“Uh-huh…”

“There, you’ll find a man selling falafel. Hand him the phone, and tell him it belongs to an arrogant jackass. Then walk away. Or better yet, drop it in the nearest sewer.”

The call ended.

Well, that was…helpful.

⸻

LENA

I meant to give the phone back that morning.

I really did.

But then again, I also meant to graduate on time. And learn Italian. And try one of those pole fitness classes.

Instead, I ended up here: car six, three rows behind the man himself. Christian Merrick. Watching him over the rim of my travel mug as he flipped through the Financial Times. He looked like a lion at rest—still, dangerous, stunning.

A young woman got on and sat opposite him. Tight dress. Shiny heels. Legs smooth as glass. I noticed. Everyone did. But Christian didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance. Didn’t blink. He just clicked the bezel of his Rolex and continued reading like a sculpture.

I’d judged him as a player. A cocky suit with women on speed dial. Apparently, I didn’t know a thing.

His stop came, and I considered returning the phone then. But…tomorrow sounded better.

Later, while sipping from my mug, I went back through his photos. This time, I zoomed in—studying the backgrounds.

In one, he stood beside the old woman, both smiling near a fireplace. I noticed a mantle lined with framed photos. One showed a boy in a private school blazer. Maybe him? Maybe not.

Another photo, zoomed in hard, revealed a mailman caught mid-stride in the background. What the hell was I doing?

At my usual coffee stand, I leaned over the counter. “I’ll take a venti triple-foam caramel macchiato with a whisper of cinnamon and a touch of unicorn tears.”

Raul snorted. I loved messing with him whenever I*******m moms lined up behind me. He handed me a regular black coffee with a wink.

⸻

When I reached the office, Clarice was already growling at her computer.

“Call The Pemberton,” she barked. “Last time they put me in a room with dust on the chandelier. Can you imagine?”

“Would you like me to request a room or just yell at them for fun?”

She tossed a card toward me with “Yolanda” scribbled on it. “Ask for someone besides Yolanda. Mention the cobwebs and demand a discount.”

“What if they don’t give a discount?”

“Book it anyway. But note that I’m watching them.”

“But…you said the room was clean last time?”

“Of course it was. But why pay full price when you don’t have to?”

Morals: 0. Clarice: 1.

⸻

It was Wednesday, which meant Clarice would leave for her weekly lunch with her editor soon. A blessed half-day of freedom. She left a laundry list of tasks that included:

• Order new business cards. (Classy, not circus.)

• Update the blog. (No sexual innuendos this time, Lena.)

• Enter receipts into the system. (Claim every discount, even expired ones.)

• Drop off dry cleaning. (Do NOT pay if the zipper on my silk blouse is still stiff.)

• Accept printing delivery. (No tip. He was late again.)

Instead, I threw on some indie rock (Clarice hated noise), slipped the delivery guy a ten, and took a guilt-free break. Feet on desk. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Broody’s phone in hand.

I Googled him: Christian Merrick.

Boom. Over a thousand results. The top hit: Merrick Strategic Group. Fancy.

I clicked through. Real estate. Investment firms. Start-ups. Hedge funds. A whole page of elite-sounding ventures. His website looked like it had been designed by the Illuminati.

One line under his photo read:

“Merrick Strategic Group – Preserving Wealth. Building Legacies.”

Translation: Old money. New ego.

Who was managing my wealth?

Oh, right… nobody.

Unless you counted my spectacular rack—which, for the record, no one was managing at the moment—I was flying completely solo.

I clicked over to the About tab, and my jaw just about unhinged itself. The first photo staring back at me was none other than the Adonis himself—Christian Merrick. And holy hell, the man was a walking work of art. That sharp, sculpted nose, a jawline that looked like it was carved from marble, and eyes the warm, dreamy shade of melted milk chocolate. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out he had some Greek god in his bloodline.

I found myself licking my lips. Focus, Soraya.

Beneath the photo, I skimmed through his bio. Twenty-nine years old. Graduated Summa Cum Laude from Wharton. Single—shocking no one—and then the usual parade of elite credentials, blah blah blah. But the last line? That one actually made me blink.

“Mr. Merrick founded Merrick Financial Holdings only eight years ago, yet its diverse client portfolio rivals the oldest and most prestigious investment firms in New York City.”

Well then. Looks like I was dead wrong about Daddy buying his throne.

After wiping the drool off the keypad, I moved on to the Team tab. Thirty different directors and managers were outlined. There was a common theme there, too—overeducated and scowling like they’d all been told smiling voided their MBAs. Except for one lone renegade who dared to smirk for his corporate photo. Ben Schilling, apparently a marketing manager. He looked like he played guitar at open mic nights and didn’t take corporate life too seriously.

Bored with spreadsheets, boardrooms, and my own to-do list, I scrolled through Christian’s contacts again. I passed over Avery’s name and wondered if it was only women that Mr. Big Prick managed to piss off. A few names down from Avery, I landed on the first male name: Ben. Hmmm.

Without overthinking it (which was becoming my specialty), I thumbed off a quick text:

Christian: What’s up?

I actually perked up when the little three dots started bouncing. Someone was typing. I was invested now.

Ben: Working on that presentation. I’ll have it ready tomorrow as planned.

Christian: Great. Tell Linda to get you set up on my calendar.

At least I’d gotten her name right. I stared at the screen, watching the dots disappear, then reappear. Then disappear again. Classic suspense-building moment.

Ben: I didn’t think Linda was coming back anymore. After what happened at the meeting yesterday.

Now we were getting somewhere. I straightened in my chair.

Christian: A lot happened at the meeting yesterday. What, specifically, are you referring to?

Ben: Ummm… I meant when you yelled you’re fired, get the hell out of my office.

Oh. Wow. This guy really was a total prick. Someone needed to fix his ass—and soon.

I launched Safari and reopened the last page I’d visited. Halfway down, I found what I was looking for: Meredith Kline, Human Resources Manager.

Christian: Maybe I was a little harsh. I’m in meetings all afternoon. Could you stop over and tell Meredith in HR to make sure Linda gets a month of severance?

Ben: Of course. I’m sure she will appreciate that.

If I sounded too nice, he might have gotten suspicious. Time to throw in some classic Merrick ego.

Christian: I appreciate not getting sued. What she appreciates isn’t my concern.

I figured I’d pushed this little joyride far enough for one afternoon. So, I tossed the phone into my purse before I could do any more damage.

Tomorrow, I’d return it.

And I was definitely looking forward to meeting the jerk in person.