Marry Screw Kill(52)

I stand beside him in the elevator and notice our joint reflection on the metal doors. Our shoulders hit at the same height. Our builds look remarkably similar. Even our feet are opened in the same position and angle. From the neck down, a person might think we are twins. But our hearts our different, and I pray mine reflects love and kindness. I never gave much thought to my heart’s condition until I made this trip.

The elevator’s ascent slows and stops. The doors open and I wait for James to exit. I pull my luggage down the lush carpeted hallway, the walls lined with the same dark wood from the elevator. Something about the décor and its mix of patterns reminds me of his home—classic and clean lines with expensive finishes.

We don’t pass any other doors while walking to the end of the hallway. I glance over my shoulder and spot only one other door at the opposite end. Two apartments on the entire floor. James’ place must be huge, which makes me even more surprised he moved. He could walk to work in under five minutes versus the twenty-minute drive.

James presses a few buttons on a metal panel and the over-eight-foot-tall door clicks open.

“Welcome,” James says while pushing the door wider and holding it for me to enter. I ease my belongings over the threshold and shake my head.

“Wow.” In shock, the word escapes my mouth before I can stop it. The last thing I want is James thinking I’m in awe. I am more surprised. The place looks so New York City, I half expect to see the top of the Empire State Building or 30 Rock out the window instead of The Clinics’ tower. The apartment reminds me of a friend’s apartment in SoHo close to the East Village with its large loft with brick exposed walls and fine art work placed in strategic locations to keep the eye moving.

“I have to agree.” A smug grin slides across James’ face. Pompous ass. “Just set your things down here.”

I push the luggage near an entrance table out of the way. With my hands empty, I turn and scan the living area. Couches and chairs with straight lines mix with tables of distressed wood. Add the brick backdrop and it defines modern contemporary.

“So, really, after living in New York City for years and then here, why move to cow pastures?” I prod him one more time.

“I’ve only lived there six months. Another doctor built it but moved after living there a year. I got it for a steal.” Again, facts, but no true reasons.

“So what appealed to you? You’re so close to work here,” I ask, pushing the subject.

“I wanted somewhere more private. No shared walls or floors. A place to live with a wife.”

I contemplate my next question for a few seconds and end up throwing care to the wind. “So you knew Harlow then? When you bought the place?”

James’ face becomes expressionless. The smugness marking his sick mug has vanished. Even his skin tone appears whiter.

“Well, I bought it with hope.” Shuffling on his feet, he thrusts his fingers through his hair and I make a mental fist pump for rattling him. “Hope that one day, I would meet someone like Harlow and make her my wife.”

So much implied and left unsaid. Someone like Harlow, as in lost, scared, and in need of a savior—at least in his eyes. But did he know of her before? What would take him from the cardiac floor of the hospital where he treats patients awaiting heart transplants to the active chaos of the ER?

I take a deep breath and send the last bit of caution I have in me sailing through the air. “How did you two meet?” Again, James ruffles his hair and begins to walk away from me.

“Long story. Better left for another day,” James deflects, flashing his charmed smile at me. It signals my question will remain unanswered. Dammit.

“Gotcha.” I lower the tension by dropping the subject. No need to poke the bear.

“Let me show you around.” James starts toward the open kitchen and highlights the stocked fridge. “I had it stocked by my housecleaner.”

“Cool,” I say, but I imagine the food will go to waste. After Harlow leaves him, I will be out the door in a flash and off to who knows where. My guess would be back to Manhattan. But the thought of leaving Harlow here alone in Rochester to fend for herself makes me uneasy.

Never seeing her beautiful eyes shine with happiness at me or watching the sunlight catch her golden hair leaves me hollow and sad. She found a way inside my heart when I was least expecting it. What’s that quote? “Life is what happens when you’re not looking for it.” As cheesy as it sounds, I can’t dismiss it. This attraction to Harlow was the last thing I anticipated when I walked off the plane a few days ago. Life has thrown me a curveball in the form of a beautiful woman I can’t say no to and will do anything to help.

James rattles on about the penthouse as we weave through the living area. He claims the artwork alone cost him over a million dollars and I roll my eyes. Nothing he says now will ever impress me.

“Here’s the master. I guess you can stay here.” How thoughtful of him. Jerk.

“Cool.” I crush any sarcasm, but damn it’s hard to hold back with him.

The bedroom screams bachelor pad. Dark hardwood furniture with gray bedding showcases everything with a masculine feel. Definitely not a place to bring a wife.

A modern painting hangs above the bed and doubles as a headboard. It portrays a blond woman lying on her side, facing away from my view. Her backside remains uncovered in all its glory. Soft hued skin appears shadowed. Her arm sits relaxed over the top of her hip. I trace the curve of her spine and immediately think of Harlow tied down on the dining table. The painted woman mimics Harlow’s body and its delicate curves. A cold chill runs through me. I have to know how long James has owned this work of art.