Diary of a Bad Boy(23)

But that smile quickly falters when we step outside to what feels like an all-out blizzard. At least half a foot of snow has already fallen. All the sidewalks are covered, the streets are clear, and there doesn’t seem to be a soul in sight.

“Was it supposed to snow this hard?” I ask, pulling my hood over my head.

“No idea. Don’t pay attention.” Without another thought, he turns to the right and starts walking, his hand no longer holding mine.

“Hey, wait,” I call out. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“To get the phone?”

“Sure,” he calls out, his head turned down and hiding from the fast-falling snow.

“Sure?” I jog through the thick, cold snow to catch up to him. “What do you mean, sure?”

“I think you have bigger things to figure out.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks up his pace and crosses the street, barely looking both ways, but then again, he doesn’t need to because the streets are clear. No wonder he hasn’t hailed a taxi.

“It’s two in the morning, it’s snowing, and you live in Brooklyn. How the hell do you plan on getting back home?”

Oh.

Crap.

He takes a right down a posh-looking street and then jogs up to the entryway of a nice-looking building. A doorman opens the door while giving Roark a quick nod. “Cold one, Mr. McCool.”

“Freezing my balls off,” he calls out. “Stay warm, Harris.”

Stomping his feet on the ground to knock off some of the snow, he goes to the bank of elevators and presses the up button as I take in the opulence of the marble floors and crisp black walls with gold light fixtures. Very old-school New York, very cool.

The elevator dings, and just like the rest of the day, I follow Roark and watch as he puts a key card into the elevator and presses the P button, which I’m assuming stands for penthouse. If I didn’t know already that he makes a lot of money, I know now.

We’re silent on the ride up, my mind whirling. Two in the morning? I’m never out this late, especially by myself. How on earth am I supposed to get home? I could use the subway, but this late at night? That freaks me out. Even walking around with Roark scares me, and we only walked a short distance.

The elevator doors open straight into Roark’s apartment, his very sparse apartment. There are no decorations, no frills. Furniture and that’s it.

Hmm, I don’t know why I thought there’d be more to his place.

Roark takes off his jacket and tosses it on the couch before heading to the kitchen. His built frame pushes against the fridge as he peers into it. He snags a water bottle and holds one out to me. “Want some water?”

“I’m good,” I say nervously. This oddly feels a lot like that awkward moment you have with a guy right before you start to have sex. You know, the one where he takes you up to his place to make small talk, but within five minutes you’re tearing clothes off? I hope Roark doesn’t have that impression of me. He’s going to be sadly mistaken if he does.

Water bottle in hand, he leans against the counter and takes down half the bottle in one swig. It’s weird that I’m impressed.

“So, about that phone.” I rock on my heels, looking around.

“Yeah, it’s on my nightstand, charging.” At least he had the decency to charge it.

“Can you possibly get it for me?”

“I can.”

He doesn’t move.

“Okay. Like now?”

“What are you going to do? Head back to Brooklyn?”

I adjust my purse on my shoulder. “Uh, I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

“Figures.” He finishes his drink and tosses the bottle in the sink. “Guest room is off to the right. Everything you need is in the attached bathroom.”

“What? You think I’m staying here?”

He shrugs and passes through the living room. “Your choice.”

He walks down a narrow hallway, and I’m tempted to follow him again but think better of it, knowing he’s getting my phone, but when he doesn’t return after a good ten minutes, I wonder if I should have followed him.

Why does he have to make things so difficult?

Unsure, but also desperate to have a small piece of me back, I walk down the hallway and call out his name. When he doesn’t answer, I move even farther to a partially open door.

His bedroom.

If I open this door and he’s passed out on the bed, snoring, I’m going to kick him right in the ass.

But when I press forward, his bed is empty and instead, I find him walking around in a low-slung towel, wet hair, and droplets of water cascading down his perfectly defined chest.

Oh my.

He glances in my direction. “Took you long enough.” He grabs my phone from the nightstand and tosses it at me, then heads back into the bathroom where I hear him brushing his teeth.

I stand there. Unsure.

Do I attempt to go home? I’m not traveling the streets by myself, especially at this hour. But staying at Roark’s screams madness. Although, madness describes my day perfectly. The only thing that’s making me even consider staying is that he’s my dad’s agent, and if Roark ever tried anything, Dad would hear about it and wouldn’t be happy.