I Pursued the Wrong Guy and He Became Obsessed novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Return Policy

I return Constance's wrap, talk my way past the doorman in three tries and refuse Thatcher's no a second and third time, and he reassigns me to the floor he lives on.

Lacey was sitting on the end of my bed at seven in the morning with her laptop open.

"Four million views," she said. "You're a sound now."

"A sound?"

"People are putting your voice over cat videos. 'Mr. Kincaid, I'm going to marry you.'"

She turned the screen toward me.

On it, a tiny June held up a laminated card, and a cat in a tuxedo fell off a sofa.

"He told you to go ruin another man's night," Lacey said. "In front of everyone. On purpose."

"He said please."

"June."

"It was a front. I'm going to see him at nine."

"I've lived with you for three months," Lacey said, "and I want it on the record that I'm worried."

"Noted," I said. "Can you iron me a blazer?"

The Kincaid Grand's executive entrance has a single door, a single doorman and a sign that says By Appointment.

I came in at nine sharp with Constance Kincaid's gray wrap in a dry-cleaning bag.

"Appointment?" the doorman asked.

"With Mr. Kincaid."

He looked at his tablet. His face changed.

"He left instructions about you."

"That means he's been thinking about me."

"They say, and I'm reading, 'A woman with a laminated card may not pass.'"

I held up the card.

"This one?"

"That's the one."

I held up the dry-cleaning bag instead.

"Mrs. Kincaid lent me this last night. Are you going to be the one who tells her it's still in my bag?"

He stepped aside and let me into the lobby. He did not let me near the elevator.

It needed a key card, and he had the only one at the desk.

I watched him for a minute.

He had a thermos and a paper bag from a bakery next to his elbow, both full.

He kept looking at them and not touching them.

"Did your relief call out?" I asked.

"Six hours ago."

"Go eat. I've worked a door. I'll be here."

"You can't."

"I'll say 'Welcome to the Kincaid Grand' to anyone who walks in. Ten minutes."

He looked at the clock, and then at the bakery bag, and then he left.

I stood at that door while he was gone.

A tour group of nine arrived early.

I checked them in and told them the breakfast terrace was open.

Then I sold them the champagne brunch.

The doorman came back and found nine happy strangers and a sign-up sheet.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A guest of the family," I said.

He swiped me into the elevator himself.

A woman in a cream dress caught the door before it closed.

She had honey-blonde hair, a phone in one hand and two coffees in the other.

"You're June," she said. "I'm Monique Merrick, a friend of the family. I watched your video four times."

"Was it that bad?"

"It was the bravest thing I've ever seen."

She handed me a coffee.

"He takes his black with one sugar, by the way. In case you're wondering what to bring him."

"Thank you," I said, and meant it.

She got off at twenty-two. The cup was still hot.

"Affection: eleven percent," the voice said as the doors closed. "Doorman affection: ninety. This is irrelevant."

I rode up to the thirtieth floor grinning.

Thatcher was standing at the window with his back to me when I walked in.

His desk was bare except for a black notebook, closed.

He picked it up as I came in and slid it into a drawer.

"How did you get up here?"

"I returned the doorman's lunch."

"I told him to keep you out."

"Your mother lent me this." I put the wrap on a chair. "That's the whole reason I came. Also, no."

He turned around.

"No to what?"

"No, I'm not going to stop. You said no. I counted it. It's one."

He closed his eyes.

"Miss Abernathy, I need you out of this building. I need you out of my life."

"That's two," I said.

"I can have you fired."

"Then I'm a guest. Rooms start at two-forty a night, and I've priced the staff rate. It's sixty."

"It doesn't cover the penthouse floor."

"I don't want the penthouse floor. I want you."

He was quiet for longer than I expected.

His eyes went to my left temple again, then back to my face.

"Who put you up to this?" he asked.

"Nobody."

"Somebody told you to speak to me."

"I decided that all by myself," I said.

It was the first lie I'd told him, and I told it with a straight face.

He picked up his desk phone.

"HR. This is Thatcher Kincaid. I want an employee moved to another property."

He kept his eyes on me.

"Abernathy. A long way from this one. Yes, another city is fine."

I waited.

He looked at me with the receiver against his ear.

"Duluth," he said.

The voice chimed. "Affection: fourteen percent. Plus three. Reason: he said Duluth and did not finish the call."

"Hold," Thatcher told the phone.

Then he put it down on the desk, still connected, and said to me, very quietly, "Please leave."

"Three."

"Out."

I went out.

I was in the elevator when my phone buzzed with an email from HR.

It said, "Effective tonight, June Abernathy is reassigned as Night Concierge, Penthouse Floor." It was signed E. Kincaid.

It wasn't Duluth.

It was the floor he lived on.

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