“Want to do more than watch?”

Her hot new neighbor’s even hotter dare...

Chloe Park only meant to peek at him. Lean, hard and tattooed, Jackson Drake is hotness incarnate—and she can see right into his living room! Her sexy spectating drives them both near insane with lust. And with every wicked line they cross, Chloe falls harder for the bad boy next door...

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author

CARA LOCKWOOD is the USA TODAY bestselling author of more than eighteen books, including I Do (But I Don’t), which was made into a Lifetime Original movie. She’s written the Bard Academy series for young adults, and has had her work translated into several languages around the world. Born and raised in Dallas, Cara now lives near Chicago with her husband and their five children. Find out more about her at caralockwood.com, ‘friend’ her on Facebook, facebook.com/authorcaralockwood, or follow her on Twitter, @caralockwood.

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Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Look at Me

Cara Lockwood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07143-7

LOOK AT ME

© 2018 Cara Lockwood

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For the love of my life, my husband, PJ.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

CHLOE PARK STARED at her laptop as she sat at her kitchen table in her roomy north Chicago condo. She fanned her face, desperately trying to get a breeze from her open window. Outside, the June heat pushed the temperature up beyond eighty-five degrees and the noon sun beat mercilessly down on her brick building. Soon, she’d have to break down and call someone to repair her AC, but not yet. Not with her bank account hovering near zero until the end of the week when she expected the arrival of her next freelance check. Chloe tried once more to focus on a work email, but the high-pitched squeal of a truck’s old brakes drifting in through her open window broke her concentration. She tried to ignore it, focusing on her screen and the last few sentences she’d need to write before she could hit Send. Then came the sound of metal clanging against metal.

“Really?” she asked her apartment, feeling as though everyone were conspiring against her to get no work done. She had at least five client social media accounts to update and a proposal to send out to a new corporate client who needed freelance social media updates now. But she couldn’t focus on any of that. Chloe abandoned the email, frustrated, as she swiped a bit of sweat from her brow. This heat! Ugh. She hated it. And the noise outside didn’t help, but she also knew if she closed that window her condo would turn into a brick oven. The clanging was replaced by the voices of men, made louder by the echo effect of the small alley.

She lived in a small building of just five units, each stacked on top of the other in an old factory renovated for condos but originally built in the 1920s. She lived at the top of their building, on floor four, in between an office building to the south and to the north a condo building that was being gutted and repurposed.

Unable to resist any longer, she grabbed the can of Coke from her table and went to her window, glancing out to see a small white moving truck in the alley beneath it, and one mover who struggled to slide a heavy metal ramp out from the open back.

New neighbor? she wondered, and immediately knew which one. Had to be the building across the street, the one she’d seen construction crews head in and out of as they gutted it and redesigned the three-flat. The building was made of solid brick with a faint Herron and Co. logo on the side. No windows faced her, except three on the top floor and a single lone window on the second. Those had been the old offices of the executives running the company. She heard it had once been a cold storage facility back in the early 1900s. This explained the garage doors below narrow enough to fit the horse-drawn carriages that came to pick up deliveries, and the first floor, which was entirely bricked in. Someone told her a condo owner decided to renovate the fourth floor back in the 1980s, adding in windows that looked out on the alley between them. Still, the old icehouse was one of many reasons she loved Chicago, where new lived beside old, modern beside antique and old buildings like this one found new life.

The neighboring building was big enough for three condos, but as far as she knew, the entire building had been empty since she’d moved in eight months ago. There’d been construction crews coming and going, and the rumor from her downstairs neighbor—a Realtor—was that the entire building was being converted into one massive home: no doubt for one very rich couple or a very rich family of ten, since the three-story brownstone could easily hold ten bedrooms and five bathrooms. From her floor, she could see straight into the top floor of the building, where she saw a spacious living room with dark-stained pine floors and had a full view of the expansive rooftop deck: covered in wood, complete with a built-in fire pit and benches. Last week, gardeners had arrived with potted plants, and so the entire deck was in bloom with white and yellow flowers.

Now she studied the movers. None of them looked up. Chloe had gotten used to not being seen from her vantage point. People just didn’t glance up beyond the second floor of her building. Chloe sank into the little bench at her bay window, sipping her soda and watching the men work. Because it was so hot, Chloe could only bear to wear a tank top with thin straps and a pair of old gym shorts. She hadn’t bothered putting on makeup, because she worked from home and the humidity would just melt it off anyway. She’d swept her dark, nearly black hair up in a hastily made ponytail, but didn’t care. She doubted the movers would be looking up. She felt invisible on her perch. She took another sip, watching the burly workers below as they waited to unload their cargo. They seemed not able to get in.

Then a brand-new Maserati roared up to the back of the building, steered by a man in his early 30s. He parked in the alley, not caring about a proper parking space. She guessed a man with a Maserati could afford a parking ticket. He popped out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Hang on. Hello. Tall, built like a linebacker, with muscles she could see from where she sat. What was he—a boxer? A fitness trainer? No trainer she knew could afford a Maserati.

He ran a hand through a thick head of dirty-blond hair as he dropped his phone in his pocket. He instantly started directing the movers.

She glanced at his flat stomach hugged by his skintight shirt and thought: Bet he’s gay. She didn’t know any straight guys who worked that hard on their abs. And she knew next to no rich men who did. After all, why bother, when their wallets could speak for themselves?

But...if he is straight...mmm, mama. He had just the right amount of blond goatee covering his chin. She saw no ring on his left hand. Then he grabbed keys from his pocket and opened the back door. Could he be...the new neighbor? He certainly acted like it. And the Maserati fit the profile of someone who’d just bought a whole building for himself.

She willed him to look up, to see her, but he didn’t. Not that he would.

No one bothers to see me up here. The benefits of being invisible meant that she could spy with abandon.

The new neighbor was gorgeous, with a capital G. And had more money than God if he was going to live in that building all by himself. Lincoln Park real estate was anything but cheap. Just ask Chance the Rapper, who lived two streets over. Not that money alone really spoke to Chloe. Sure, she wouldn’t mind having more of it, but her Korean dad and Irish mom raised her with Midwestern values. They told her to work hard, keep her head down and not be flashy.

A strand of her nearly black hair fell into her face. She blew it off her sticky forehead and fumbled with her tank-top spaghetti strap that kept falling off her shoulder. She watched as the new neighbor directed the movers, as they unloaded the truck—a big gray sectional coming first, as they maneuvered it into the open door across the way.

At least I’m not moving a couch wearing a jumpsuit in this heat, she thought, fanning herself and taking a sip of her now-lukewarm soda.

A few minutes later she saw them maneuver the same couch into the third-floor living room. She realized then she could see the entire living room, the fireplace, a bit of the kitchen and even, when the bedroom door was open, a little of that as well. And now the shades were up and she saw movers walking about the space below. She watched the new neighbor in the alley pick up a few boxes himself, his biceps rippling beneath the weight. What kind of billionaire lifts his own boxes? Now Chloe’s curiosity was piqued. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe that wall of muscle was the billionaire’s personal assistant? Yet something told her no. It was the way he carried himself. This man was in charge, and not just of the move.

The intriguing man disappeared into the staircase. Chloe’s phone dinged then, an incoming message, an email alert. She absently went to get her phone, and scrolled through her messages. Spam, actually. She dismissed it and returned to the window, noticing that the mystery neighbor popped up at the top floor and walked the boxes into the living room. Doesn’t hurt to watch, does it? Not that they’ll see me anyway.

He hadn’t noticed her, and yet she was close enough to see his forehead start to glisten a little with sweat. For once, she was glad of her invisibility cloak. Now she could see his face a bit better as he stood at the window, looking down. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his forehead, and she could see his eyes weren’t brown. Blue, maybe? Or green? Hard to tell. He swiped at the bead of sweat on his temple.

Wish I could wipe that off...with my tongue, she found herself thinking, and then giggled to herself at the ludicrous idea as she clutched her phone in her sweaty palm. Where did that come from? It had to be because she was newly single, she figured. Suddenly, everybody was a possibility. As she finished off her can of soda, she watched the new neighbor dump a box in the living room and then run an arm across his own sweaty brow. Then, to her utter surprise, he whipped off his tee.

Oh...my. Hello there, sexy. She hadn’t seen such an amazing chest before except on the giant posters of her gym. He had abs, yes, and that amazing little vee stretching down into his low-slung khakis. His well-defined pecs and chiseled arms seemed like they should be wielding a hammer.

She also noticed this bad boy had tattoos. A big one across his right arm and shoulder. What was it? She couldn’t make it out. She pulled up her phone’s camera and then zoomed in, trying to get a better look. Was the tattoo part of a wing? She wasn’t sure.

Okay, what bazillionaire lifted his own boxes and had tattoos? Chloe shook her head. The new neighbor was all kinds of mystery rolled into some serious eye candy. He patted his face with his own shirt, and Chloe felt like she’d suddenly been taken out of time. Everything she watched seemed to be on a slow-motion reel, even as her sexy new neighbor grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig. She watched his Adam’s apple bob and suddenly wished he’d dump the whole bottle on his head.

What’s wrong with you? This isn’t a male revue, for goodness’ sake. Chloe tried to mentally shake herself, but she still sat at the window anyway, transfixed. She clutched the phone in her hand. Should she take a picture? She was tempted. Then the dazzling neighbor moved away from the window and out of sight.

Dammit. Where did the bad boy with the abs go?

She pushed forward, trying to see, and her spaghetti strap slipped again from her shoulder. She wore no bra, since it was too hot for one in her opinion, and the fabric of her shirt slung dangerously low, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She was too focused on getting one more glimpse of her Nordic god neighbor.

Where had he gone? She couldn’t see him at the windows anymore. The door to the roof creaked open then, and she saw him head out on the slate tile of the patio. Now he was even closer, a perfect place to take a picture. Should she? Her friends would never believe such a hunky man had moved in. And what if he was famous? An actor, maybe? From Chicago Fire or one of the dozens of regular shows that filmed in downtown Chicago?

She held up her phone, debating whether to take a shot, when he suddenly glanced up and their eyes met. For a second, she froze from sheer shock. Surely he wasn’t actually seeing her. Nobody saw her up here. But he gave a slight nod of his head, a little smile, and she realized he had seen her. He held his hand up in a wave.

Horrified, Chloe scrambled to hide her phone, but the sudden movement sent the smartphone slipping out of her sweaty grasp. She watched helplessly as her phone—brand-new—toppled out of her open window. She leaned out of the window, but it was too late. Her prized possession was taken by gravity. It flipped downward to the alley below, missing his shiny new Maserati by inches, landing between it and the moving truck with a sickening crack on the asphalt.

She glanced back up at the neighbor, who seemed surprised, but was watching her—not the phone. He was transfixed, frozen, and that was when she realized—too late—she was hanging out of her window, practically falling out of her tank top, the fabric so low she was flashing the man her nipples.

Chloe, mortified, pulled up her shirt, ducked away from her window and retreated to her kitchen, her heart pounding.

That’s just great. Throw your phone out the window. Flash the neighbor. Maybe he’ll throw you some Mardi Gras beads.

The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks. Maybe he’s gay and doesn’t care. At least, she could hope for that. After a few minutes, Chloe felt like an idiot standing barefoot in her kitchen. She wondered if he was still there. Carefully, she tiptoed from her kitchen, and then kicked herself. He can’t hear me, she scolded, and tried to catch a glimpse far from her window. But when she looked out, she didn’t see the bad boy anymore. She slunk closer to the window, trying to hide herself behind a side curtain. Nope. The deck below her sat empty except for the potted plants.

Then she remembered her phone, dropped four stories onto the ground below. She needed that—it was her lifeline!

She didn’t have time to change. What if someone stepped on it? What if someone stole it? She roused herself out of her stupor and moved to her front door. She jammed her feet into flip-flops and headed for the staircase. She swung open the back door ready to jump into the alley and nearly collided with...her new neighbor.

He was holding her mangled and decidedly cracked phone in his hand. “Uh... I think you dropped this?”

Standing in front of him, she realized now how very tall he was. His muscled shoulders were all power. And he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. And she was more than aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Uh... Yeah. I...” I just flashed you a second ago. Sorry about that. “Uh... Thanks.” She grabbed the phone, with its shattered face and bent corner. It still lit up when she touched it. That was good, at least.

“I’m... Jackson Drake.” He extended a strong hand.

She took his hand dumbly and shook it. His palm was smooth and big. The man had big hands, bear paws almost. What was it that they said about big hands? His sharp blue eyes never left her.

“Looks like we’ll be neighbors.” A slow smile curved his lips. He had nice teeth, too. Model-white.

So he did own that whole building. What was a billionaire doing...fetching her phone? She happened to glance at his wrist and saw the gleaming Rolex there. Yep, definitely rich.

“And you are...?”

Idiot. Didn’t even tell him your name. “Chloe... Chloe Park.”

“Nice to meet you, Chloe. Do you mind if I call you by your first name? I feel like after today, we need to be on a first-name basis.” He grinned a sly, wolfish smile.

Still, her face flamed at the reference of her spilling out of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to having neighbors. I’m not even in the habit of shutting my blinds. That building has been abandoned for so long.”

“Don’t change on my account.” He took a slight step closer. His bare chest filled up most of her field of vision. She wondered if his skin felt as smooth as it looked. Something told her he wasn’t gay. Gay men didn’t flirt like this with her.

Chloe again lost the ability to speak. Pretty soon, he’d start thinking she was slow. Chloe felt a tingle at the back of her knees. “Park...” he said, blue eyes never leaving hers. “Is that Korean?”

“Dad’s Korean. Mom’s Irish. You know, a living representation of the melting pot. They live in Seattle, but I see them a couple of times a year...” What was she yammering on about? She always did that when she was nervous.

“Hey! Drake!” called one of the movers carrying a large box. “This going to the first floor or...?”

Jackson hesitated, seeming to want to linger. Or maybe that was just because he didn’t want to deal with moving. Moving day was always terrible, no matter how rich you were, Chloe supposed.

“Well, I see you’re busy, but, uh...thanks for the phone. It’s my lifeline.” She held up her battered phone. If her lifeline still worked, that is.

Jackson nodded. He couldn’t be more confident in his own skin, standing at her back alley door. But then, why wouldn’t he be? He was gorgeous and rich. He was probably used to women falling at his feet. Or falling out of their tops, she thought ruefully.

“Until...next time then. Chloe.” He nodded once at her, and she was held there, for a second, trapped in his ice-blue eyes. Eventually, she remembered she was a sweaty, unshowered mess and wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup—or a bra. Her girls were probably bouncing all over the place. Self-consciousness consumed her. She crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest.

“Till next time,” she squeaked, like a mouse, and retreated. Even as the alley door closed, she felt her heart pounding.

CHAPTER TWO

JACKSON DRAKE COULDN’T get his mind off the dark-haired beauty who’d given him a show as he drove his Maserati down North Avenue later that day. He grinned to himself. He remembered her shock and embarrassment when she’d realized she’d shown him her left breast and almost all of the right, her dark nipples puckered just the way he liked them. They came in the perfect size, natural, but not too heavy, much more than a handful. He wondered what they’d feel like against his palms. The idea of having a sexy new neighbor who often went braless was a perk he hadn’t anticipated when he’d bought the old icehouse. Drake had made a fortune in real estate, in transforming old buildings into new condos and offices. He was one of the city’s most successful large-scale flippers. A real estate magazine had labeled him a renegade, since he always bet on buildings and neighborhoods others wrote off, plus, his bad-boy look made him seem more biker gang than Fortune 500. But his facial hair grew so fast, he’d need to shave twice a day if he had even a fighting chance of being clean shaven, so he decided long ago not to fight it. Goatees and beards came easy to him.

But those who thought he looked more thug than businessman would be wrong. He prided himself on doing more research, knowing everything there was to know about a neighborhood, before he invested in it. But somehow he’d missed the intel on the sexy neighbor next door.

I would’ve finished the renovations earlier if I’d known, he mused, grinning. And maybe added more windows. He was already regretting only having one on the second floor facing the alley.

The light turned green and he gunned his car, beating the BMW in the lane next to him as he roared down the street.

He thought about her cracked phone and frowned. He made a mental note: he’d grab one of the many smartphones they kept at the office to hand out to new Realtors. It would be easy enough to replace, and besides, he was just being neighborly. He imagined what she’d do when she saw the new phone. Would her face light up with delight?

Then, almost instantly, his excitement faded a tad. He’d wondered, briefly, if it had all been an act. Most women saw the money before they saw him. He worked hard on his body, but he’d begun to think that didn’t matter in the least. Hell, if some woman wanted him for his abs it would be a welcome change of pace. Most women saw the Maserati and Rolex, and then didn’t care what he looked like. Jackson shook his head. It was why he’d all but given up hope on finding someone who actually cared about him. His last relationship had been a disaster from the get-go: she’d been a social climber disguised as a bartender—Laurie, a woman he’d caught in his bathroom, legs up on the bathroom counter, as she tried to tip the contents of a used condom inside her to impregnate herself. It was a calculated move to get child support, or 20 percent of his gross income per year until the baby turned eighteen.

Every time Jackson thought he’d become as cynical as you could be about women, he managed to find a new level. The experience had been enough to make him want to never date again. Lately, Jackson had been relying on old friends-with-benefits relationships, the kind that came with no strings, no commitments. Women who liked nice meals out, the occasional gift, and didn’t mind that Jackson would disappear for months at a time. Having money wasn’t all bad.

He’d been telling himself for years that this was exactly what he wanted: a rotation of gorgeous and willing women. Mostly, this worked just fine, until he spent Thanksgiving with his cousin and his wife and kids in the burbs and wondered what it would be like to have a family of his own: a house full of love and laughter and a little bit of chaos. It was really why Laurie’s antics had hurt him so much. He worried that he’d never find genuine love, a woman who could see beyond the money and could love the man beneath.

He steered his car to the office bearing his name—Drake Properties—and pulled into the underground parking beneath the sleek skyscraper that housed his office in the Gold Coast near downtown Chicago, aptly named for its stunning multimillion-dollar condos and its proximity to the Magnificent Mile, home to the swankiest stores in the city. He was happy to see that most of the spaces dedicated to his office were empty. That was a good thing. That meant Realtors were out doing their jobs. After all, you couldn’t sell property from inside an air-conditioned office. He headed to the elevator, texting his assistant to let him know he’d be arriving soon. In seconds he was inside the lobby of the building, which they shared with a few other businesses. He waved at the security guard up front and then headed to the bank of elevators that would take him to the top floor.

The elevator door barely opened before his assistant, Hailey, greeted him with a piping-hot cappuccino, foamed up just the way he liked it, an elaborate swirled pattern down the center.

“Good morning, sir,” Hailey said, beaming her million-dollar smile as she handed him the perfectly foamed cappuccino. Blond perfection in a steel-gray pencil skirt and blouse, Hailey was all business, just the way he liked it. Clients were stunned by her beauty, but he loved the fact that she never missed the smallest detail.

“Here are the dailies,” she said, handing him a folder with the highlights of the day as well, including the brewing deals in the office. “And the Housing Network called again. They wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to their show.” Hailey paused at his door, waiting for his answer.

Jackson shook his head. “Don’t have time for reality TV discussions this week,” he said, even though he knew HN wouldn’t give up. They’d been hounding him for months to come do a guest spot on their show that put experts in touch with amateur home flippers. While the possibility was intriguing, Jackson had his hands full with current projects, and fame had never really interested him much.

“Thank you, Hailey.”

“Yes, sir,” Hailey said. “Oh, one more thing. Mr. Roberts is waiting for you. In the lobby.”

“Why?” Jackson frowned. Roberts was his major competition in Chicago, and the only other developer who flipped buildings as fast as Jackson did. But while Jackson believed in revamping the community and trying to keep housing reasonably affordable, caring about the city as a whole, Roberts was a typical slumlord: he’d been born wealthy, a trust fund baby who had gotten richer on the backs of the poor. He had a vast holding of decrepit properties on the South Side. The two never saw eye to eye on anything. So why was he waiting for a meeting?

“He would only tell me that you’d want to hear his proposition.”

“I’m not interested in any deal that man offers.” Jackson took a sip of his cappuccino and then headed into his spacious corner office, made almost completely of glass. His sleek glass-legged desk waited for him, as did his new laptop. From his vantage point, he could see Lake Michigan, dotted with small white sailboats, the beaches nearby filled with sunbathers, even on a weekday.

Hailey barely hid a smile. “That’s what I figured. Shall I tell him to leave?”

“No need, Miss Hailey,” came a baritone from Jackson’s office door. The two turned to see Kent Roberts standing there. Jackson frowned. He glanced at the tall, fit, dark-haired real estate baron hanging in his office door and hated the look of him: the preppy blue blazer, crisp khakis, expensive loafers and gleaming designer aviators perched on top of his wavy dark hair. His preppy, too-buttoned-up style rubbed Jackson the wrong way. It was as if he’d never grown out of the exclusive prep school uniform look. Then again, he probably went to boarding schools as a kid, so maybe he didn’t know how else to dress.

Jackson was a man who liked to get his hands dirty, who would be just as likely to pick up a hammer on a construction site as blueprints. Kent, however, had delicate, manicured hands that had never seen a day’s hard work in his whole life. The two were polar opposites.

“Sir?” Hailey asked, her single word loaded with meaning.

“It’s all right, Hailey. I’ll handle this.”

With a swift nod, she backed out of his office, leaving him and Roberts alone.

Jackson ran a hand over his goatee, which was quickly on the border of turning into a full-fledged beard. He took smug satisfaction in Kent’s baby-faced chin. The man couldn’t grow anything, he was pretty sure. Jackson sneezed and had a moustache.

“What can I do for you?” Jackson braced himself. He’d learned long ago not to underestimate his adversary. He might look like he never got his hands dirty, but he wasn’t afraid to stab anybody in the back.

“It’s what I can do for you, friend.” Kent smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I heard you moved into your house on MacKenzie. We’re neighbors.”

“Neighbors?” Jackson asked stiffly.

“Well, I just bought the property next door.”

Jackson frowned. How did he not know the building was for sale? He would’ve scooped it up, if only to protect his property values. Kent grinned, knowing he’d won that small victory.

“Which one?” Jackson asked.

“1209.”

That was when Jackson realized it was Chloe’s building, his sexy new neighbor. Now it really didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like the idea of Chloe having a new slumlord owning her lease, a man who’d no doubt raise her rent but then refuse to fix anything. He might not know Chloe well, but what he did know he liked, and besides, no one deserved that.

“What do you plan to do with it?” Jackson asked.

Kent grinned even bigger. “Why, sell it to you, of course.”

Now Jackson was on full alert. Kent was not the kind of man to ever do him any favors. “Why?”

“Because I know you’ll make me the best offer. You’ve got all that new money lying around.” He tapped Jackson’s desk to make sure he hadn’t missed the dig. “I’m sure you can afford it. Unless...you’d rather save your money for NASCAR, or whatever it is you like.”

Kent always made a point of referencing the fact that Jackson came from humble beginnings. Kent had inherited his wealth. Never really worked a day in his life. Jackson’s father worked as a carpenter. He just happened to have a heart attack on the job when he was near retirement, and that gave Jackson the ability to buy his first office and flip it. Sure, they’d both inherited money, but Jackson’s inheritance came with much fewer zeros.

“I earned my money,” he said. “I’m not embarrassed about that.”

Kent frowned. “Well, like I said, I think you should think long and hard about making me a good offer.” Jackson suddenly felt that if he didn’t buy the building, Kent might turn it into something terrible, like a truck stop in the middle of the city. Or a strip club. Something that would make living next door impossible. “How about I have my people get in touch with your people... I just know we can make a deal.”

Kent stood, arms crossed, a fixed grin on his face that said he was enjoying this little meeting a little too much. Kent loved lording this over Jackson. He had no doubt the developer would insist on the most unreasonable price for the building, just so Jackson would keep it out of his hands. Honestly, it was lazy and stalkerish of Kent. Was his plan just to follow Jackson around the city? Buy up anything next door?

Jackson sighed. “Fine,” he said, hating this little game of cat and mouse. He’d rather just ignore Kent, pretend he didn’t exist, but Kent had other ideas. He’d seemed obsessed lately with picking a fight, and it was in no small part due to the fact that Jackson was far more successful than Kent, had reality TV offers when Kent had none, and had outbid him on a recent parkland deal with the city, a lucrative project that would turn junkyards into public spaces. Jackson understood that Kent was a bad developer, that he’d lost out on a number of big deals recently because he hadn’t had the vision or the courage to jump into new projects. Jackson had both. Of course, if Kent spent less time in strip clubs and more time reading up on real estate, he could be as successful, too.

Kent hung around, standing near the door, that smug grin on his face that Jackson hated. Jackson glanced back at his computer, dismissal obvious. When Kent didn’t leave right away, Jackson reluctantly looked up. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ll have my people call your people,” he said, completely unaware of how pretentious and clichéd he sounded.

Jackson didn’t respond, but stared at his computer screen until Kent had left.

Hailey rushed in when he was gone.

“Everything...okay?” she asked, tentative.

“Fine. He’s just blowing hot air—as usual. The man has an endless supply.” Jackson shook his head.

“How bad is this rivalry going to get?” Hailey asked. “Should I schedule a fight after school?” Her mouth quirked up in a teasing smile. Hailey, who just married her longtime partner, Kristi, last year, had little tolerance for testosterone-fueled fights.

“I would totally win that fight,” he felt the need to say, for the record.

“Oh, I know you would, sir.” Hailey grinned.

“You’ll be hearing from him about a property near my house. I’m sure the first offer will be laughable. Just be on the lookout.”

“Will do,” Hailey said and ducked out of his office once more.

He took another sip of his now-lukewarm cappuccino and tapped on his keyboard, bringing his computer screen to life. After discussions with Kent, he needed to cleanse his palate. He thought about his new neighbor and her dark eyes and...exposed nipple. He loved her look, not quite Korean, not quite Irish, something in between. He was all kinds of mutt, mostly Celtic, a little bit Cherokee in there somewhere, German, and a spattering of Cajun, too. Curious about Chloe, he pulled up her building and saw it was a rental property, apartments, which he knew already. He saw old pictures of what must be her condo, a small efficiency. As he swiped through them, his phone lit up with an incoming message from his ex-girlfriend.

Miss you.

He stared at the message and shook his head. Laurie. Really? She missed him? He knew that was a lie. She missed his money, maybe. Him? No way. He deleted the message. Hearing from Laurie felt like a bucket of cold water over his head. Why was he thinking about the mystery girl next door? She was probably no different than Laurie.

Even Jackson realized he was slipping down into a dark place. He didn’t like it, either. Didn’t like his new morose attitude. He’d always been a go-getter. That was how he’d built his empire from nothing.

Then he got another message. How’s the move going? Bed assembled yet? This from Annaliese, one of his friends with benefits, an Eastern European model who was more than happy to be kept in rotation.

Maybe, he said.

If it is, how about I come over and help you break it in tonight?

Jackson thought about Annaliese’s curves, her sleek red hair and the way she had a knack for distracting him from problems, namely with her talented hands. And mouth.

He’d never fall in love Annaliese—she was far too single-minded for him, and it was purely just about the sex. She never wanted dinner or drinks. She’d made it clear from the start that she had no interest in any relationship, and even if she did, he’d be the last person she’d think about marrying. Annaliese had a theory that no one could be faithful, really, especially rich men. Not that she’d given him the chance. Still, he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to sit across from Annaliese at a dinner table. Most of the time when she showed up at his place, she wore a raincoat and nothing else. Occasionally, she’d wear garters. Or transparent lace. Or thongs. He found himself wondering what she’d choose tonight.

It’s a date, he wrote.

You know I don’t date, she wrote back, and he grinned.

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU SHOULD COME out with us tonight,” said Ryan on the phone as Chloe glanced down at her just-microwaved burrito. She had her hands-free set tucked in her ear as she sat in her warm kitchen, though it was cooling off now that the sun had set outside and a soothing breeze seeped into her open window. She glanced at her shattered screen. The phone still worked as a phone, but there was no way she’d be able to check text messages or Twitter. It would be one more expense she’d need to make when she got her next check. She’d just have to wait until then. It didn’t help that most of her social media clients of late were nonprofits who took a long time paying their bills. She’d worked most of the afternoon with a nonprofit group called Our Home, which tried to help low-income families stay in neighborhoods that were slowly being gentrified.

She’d uploaded some photos of their work. Much of what they did resembled Habitat for Humanity projects, except they repaired damaged buildings and pressured local aldermen not to green-light commercial real estate that could threaten low-income housing. Of course, if Chloe didn’t get paid soon, she’d have to move herself to the category of low income. Her laptop remained open on the dining room table, proof she had been working some today. She was still wearing the outfit she’d flashed her new neighbor in (her pajama tank and shorts, having not bothered to change since she’d been chained to her laptop most of the day). Owning her own consulting business meant she got to work from home, but it also meant that work never stopped, either. Not if she wanted her business to survive. She’d just gotten a notice in her mailbox, too, something about a new owner of the building. She hoped that didn’t mean a rent hike when her lease was up in a few months, but she knew it might.

“Ryan, I don’t know...” I’d have to shower. Change. It seems like such a production. Or she could sit and eat her burrito, binge-watch Game of Thrones, and call it a night. The latter seemed so much simpler.

“Brendan says if you don’t get out of the house once this week, we’re officially holding an intervention.” Chloe grinned. She loved Ryan and Brendan—she’d stood up in their wedding the summer before. She’d been friends with Ryan since college and had been thrilled when he’d met Brendan—the two were great together: both dark-haired and lean, both rabid outdoorsmen, with a bent toward mountain climbing. Whenever Chloe thought love might not be in the cards for her, she looked at them and thought that if they could find their soul mates, then probably so could she. She would’ve been nauseated by their sickly sweet Facebook posts, except that she loved them both to death.

“Seriously, Chlo, how many days in a row have you worn the outfit you’re wearing right now?”

“One,” she said. Then she wondered if that was true. Had she changed yesterday? Now she couldn’t quite remember, though she had to admit, the thought had crossed her mind to just head to bed in the same pajamas. Would that be a new low? Not showering and not changing two days in a row. Hell, but wasn’t this one of the major perks of working at home?

“I think you’re lying.”

Chloe had to laugh. “I’ll catch you guys next time, okay?”

Ryan sighed. “Okay, but you’re starting to turn into some weird hermit, you know that? You need to get out. Socialize with people. You do social media all day, but you never talk to anyone anymore. Like when was your last human interaction?”

“That’s not necessary for my job,” she pointed out.

“No, but it is for your mental health. Since the breakup...”

“Don’t even mention his name.” Kevin. The investment banker who’d made fun of her consulting business, who often told her she should “get a real job” and endlessly made jokes about how work done in her pajamas was no work at all. But Chloe was proud of her accomplishments, proud of being her own boss. But because she didn’t have a traditional job, Kevin thought she was somehow less important. He saw a girlfriend mostly as an accessory and not a person, which was why he called her by the wrong name in bed...a name she discovered from a series of lurid text messages on his phone belonged to his coworker, a woman he’d been sleeping with on the side.

“You’ve been hiding, Chlo. Time to break free and get out there,” Ryan said.

She knew he was right, but she didn’t feel like getting out there. As awful as Kevin had been to her, she’d gotten to the point where she had really started to think they might get married. He’d told her as much. The fact that he’d been cheating was a blow she still felt six months later. It was because Chloe knew she wanted more. She was closing in on thirty, and her biological clock had kicked into overdrive. She wanted a baby, a family, a husband, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to find any of those things going out to a bar with Ryan.

“I will—eventually,” she said, and glanced at her cooling burrito on her plate, thinking about how unappetizing it looked. “I just need some time. Besides, I’ve got a new neighbor who just moved in. Totally ripped. And loaded, too.”

“Oh! A Christian Grey!”

“Uh...well, if Christian Grey wore shorts and had tattoos.” She took a bite of the burrito and nearly scalded her tongue. She dropped the too-hot microwaved dinner.

“Ooooh. A bad boy. A rich bad boy. I like it.”

Chloe laughed. “Don’t tell Brendan. He’ll get jealous.”

“He might. You should go for that. Ride that bike if you know what I mean.”

“I think he might be gay. I mean, he’s got a six-pack.” Chloe bit her lip as she wandered to her window and glanced at her new neighbor’s darkened third floor. She’d watched all afternoon but hadn’t seen Jackson again. Instead, an army of assistants had come and unpacked him entirely. She’d never seen such efficiency before, but in a matter of hours, they’d unpacked his kitchen, set up his bed, even hung art on the walls. It must be nice to be rich, she’d thought, as she’d watched his minions do all the grunt work.

Ryan considered this. “You’re right. Six-pack abs—they are rampant in the gay community,” he deadpanned.

Just then, the neighbor’s light flickered on. Chloe backed away from her window. “Uh...gotta go, okay? I’ll call you later.”

“Just remember what I said. Don’t be a hermit!”

“Love you!” she called, and then clicked off. She told herself she shouldn’t spy on her neighbor, and besides, it was probably one of his assistants anyway. But as she hovered near the curtains, she watched Jackson enter the third floor from the open stairway at the back of the living room. He immediately tugged off his shirt.

Oh, my. That was a view she could get used to: well-toned pecs, rippled abs, broad, muscled shoulders. She wondered again what he did for a living. Model? Action hero? Jackson could be either. He disappeared into the far right room, his bedroom, as she’d watched his home-decor minions set up his bed, and carry in armful after armful of expensive suits. She didn’t see a kitchen, so it had to be on one of the two floors below. She couldn’t imagine what, exactly, he was doing with all that space. For all she knew, the first floor could be an indoor basketball court. Or filled with trampolines. She had no idea how the über-rich lived.

Maybe he was just going to bed, she thought, and then went back to her burrito. She took a bite that was still part frozen. How was one end on fire and the other an ice cube? Ugh. She put it down, suddenly not feeling like eating it. She clicked off the overhead kitchen light, the oven light the only thing illuminating her small kitchen. She glanced up and saw Jackson emerging from his bedroom wearing only mesh shorts, slung low on his hips, and still no shirt. He sank down on his plush leather couch and put his feet up. His phone must’ve sounded because he picked it up and pressed it to his ear. Then, a second later, he tapped the screen. He laid back on the couch, his eyes on the staircase. Suddenly, a woman clad only in the shortest silk jumper Chloe had ever seen appeared on the stairwell in strappy stiletto heels and too much makeup, her auburn bob cut at chin length. She was gorgeous. She sauntered over to the couch, a pouty expression on her face, and he sat there, watching her.

Was that his girlfriend? She felt a hardened pit at the center of her stomach.

But she didn’t greet him like a girlfriend. They didn’t hug or kiss. Instead, she began to slip out of her little shorts romper, the silk sleeves fluttering downward, revealing the fact that she wore no bra. She was all business, this one. No warm fuzzies. He watched the show appreciatively as she kicked out of the one-piece, now wearing only stilettos, her bare, toned body in front of him.

Well, he’s definitely not gay.

Chloe knew she needed to stop watching. But she couldn’t. She clutched at the curtain, half-hidden, mesmerized by the action unfolding in front of her. It was a billion times more interesting than her abandoned burrito. Her bad-boy neighbor stood then, and the woman knelt in front of him. She jerked down his shorts as he grabbed a handful of her hair and gave it a playful tug.

I can’t watch this, her mind screamed, and yet she couldn’t look away. The woman freed him, and Chloe nearly gasped...he was bigger than Kevin. Much bigger. She didn’t even know they came that big, even while the woman worked at it with both hands, and he stiffened beneath her touch. He watched her intently as she took part of him in her mouth, the tip. God, did they not know the windows were wide-open? Did they not know she could see...everything?

This was taking the invisible fourth floor to an entirely different level.

Yet part of her realized neither one of them cared. They were intent on sex, only on the sex. After a minute, he pulled her to her feet and whirled her around, completely in command as he bent her across the arm of his couch. Jackson reached his fingers down to her inner thigh, stroking her, then disappearing inside her. She moaned, throwing her head back. Then he had a condom package in his mouth and ripped it open, rolling the latex down his now-ready self. Then he entered her: strong, possessive, decisive.

I shouldn’t watch this. Yet she couldn’t turn away, either.

Chloe felt her whole body run hot. For a second, she imagined herself there, over that couch, him taking her from behind like an animal, him filling her up. She watched his abs tighten as he worked himself in and out, the woman’s face showing joy and want, as she took the whole thick length of him again and again. Chloe watched, transfixed, unable to turn away. She’d never had a man that big before. What would that feel like? The strange woman in his living room gripped the sofa cushions, her knuckles white as she seemed to cry out. Was she climaxing? Her whole body vibrated...and Chloe shivered. God, she felt a stab of jealousy. She wanted to climax just like that, feeling Jackson deep inside her.

Instantly, her body came alive, her belly feeling warm and tingling, her pajama shorts suddenly sticky between her legs. What am I doing? I’m a Peeping Tom. It’s wrong... And yet all she wanted to do was slip her hands down the waistband of her own shorts, to touch herself. She could feel a beat of a pulse between her legs, feel the want there, the need.

Wasn’t this illegal? Snooping in people’s windows?

I need to turn away. Close my blinds. But she kept watching, mesmerized and focusing on his magnificent body, his strong hands holding her hips, as he explored her deepest places. Her nipples stood at attention, her small, firm breasts bouncing with his every move. She rocked against him, too, grinding upward, arching her back, enjoying every inch of him.

Chloe bit her lip, feeling her nipples strain against her own shirt, and suddenly her body was overcome by want, like a fever. She wanted to be on the other side of that glass window. She wanted to feel the man’s hands on her. Those thoughts consumed her as she stood half-hidden by her curtain.

She was almost tempted to touch herself then, scratch the itch building deep within her. But no. That would be wrong. Wouldn’t it?

Chloe watched him, his eyes on the woman’s body, his face serious. Then, as if he could sense her watching, he glanced up, and for a heart-stopping second, he saw her.

She froze. Ice-cold fear ran down her spine. He saw her! She’d been caught spying!

Yet she couldn’t break his gaze, his blue-eyed stare. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was caught.

He’s going to be mad. He could even call the police...

Then, the smallest hint of a smile quirked his lip. He almost looked...amused. He kept eye contact with her and he thrust even deeper into his prize.

Her mouth dropped open. His gaze felt like a tractor beam, holding her in place. He gave her the littlest of nods. Go on, his eyes seemed to dare her, watch me. The woman before him had her eyes closed, obviously enjoying the feel of him inside her, but suddenly it didn’t even matter he was having sex with another woman. As Jackson watched Chloe, it felt like the two of them were the only people in the world. It felt strangely intimate, somehow. Chloe was watching the man at his most vulnerable, and Jackson was letting her.

Something about that was so wrong...so naughty...yet she couldn’t break his gaze, couldn’t turn from the window. How could he watch her when he was inside someone else? And yet, he seemed to...want her to watch.

Could that be?

And was it her imagination or was he turned on by it? Yes, she realized. He was. Excited by her. By her watching. She felt strangely powerful then. She wasn’t a third wheel; she was affecting what she saw.

He leaned over, nuzzling the woman’s neck and cupping her firm breast, tweaking the woman’s pink nipple, but his eyes never left hers all the while, as if somehow, he was offering to do this to her. Heat burned in her belly.

Yes. Just like that. Touch her.

Touch me.

Instinctively, Chloe’s hand covered her own breast as she felt her desire grow. The weight of her own hand against her chest felt like his then. She imagined what it would feel like for him to nuzzle her neck, even as he pushed ever deeper inside her.

Jackson straightened again, grabbing the woman’s hips, moving her slightly so she could see him from the side, see the very thick length of him move in...and out. God, he was huge, so hard for her. How did she even take that much?

Yes, Jackson. Just like that, she thought. That’s how I’d want it.

Fast.

Hard.

Deep.

He picked up his pace, as if he could hear her own thoughts. He was all animal, all want. Slickness ran between her legs as she gawked, unable—and unwilling—to look away. All the while, he stared up at her, sharp blue eyes never leaving her face.

She wanted to see him come, wanted to see him pour himself into this woman, because that was what she’d want. All of him. All that he could give her.

Then, after several furious thrusts, he came: his face overcome with the pleasure of pure relief. Jackson briefly closed his eyes as he’d found his release. She knew then she’d helped him. She’d excited him, pushed him over the edge. She felt the thudding pulse between her own legs and knew he’d had the same effect on her. Her body had come alive with need and want, as both flooded the blood in her veins, pumped by her fast-beating heart. What she’d give at that moment to be able to feel him inside her. God, she wanted him.

Then the woman before him opened her eyes, and the spell was broken. Suddenly, the intimate little bubble she’d occupied with Jackson was burst. Chloe ducked behind her curtains, fearful the woman would see. She pressed her back against the brick wall, heart pounding in her ears.

What had just happened?

It was wrong what had just happened. So very wrong. How would she feel if someone had watched her and her...boyfriend? Yet she’d never been that brazen. She would’ve never done it with the blinds up like that. She remembered the confident smirk of the woman as she’d stepped out of her jumper. Chloe doubted the woman would even care if she’d been seen. Hell, she was the one who had sex in front of the windows at night, with the blinds up.

She clicked off her foyer light, her own apartment now dark. She felt the cloak of darkness like a cover of protection. Could she ever even look at Jackson again? She frantically shut her own curtains.

No. It had been wrong. She shouldn’t have watched. Yet she liked it. She liked it even more when he’d caught her watching. When he’d shown her how much he’d enjoyed it. Those stark blue eyes watching her, excited by her watching... She’d never forget the look on his face when he’d come.

Heat built between her legs as she slipped her hand down the waistband of her shorts. She found herself so very wet, so very wanting. She touched her most delicate center and shivered, knowing this was what she’d badly wanted to do while she watched Jackson, and now she could hold back no longer. She thought about his hands, his eyes, how he’d feel inside her, filling her...and then, before she knew it, Chloe came in a heated rush, so fast, so hard, a quick explosion of need.

God, she’d never done that before: made herself come in just a matter of seconds. But she knew why this time had been different. It had been Jackson. All Jackson.

What would he do if he knew she’d...just done this? For him?

The thought danced in her mind. So wrong. Yet right.

She felt like she’d been there with him. And...her. Her heart settled a bit, her breathing slowed, and she wondered if her neighbor had gotten dressed. If he and that woman were cuddling, kissing now. The thought made her feel a flare of jealousy. Why? I’m not his girlfriend. I’m just the neighbor who flashed him...and watched him come. How she wished she could see that look of pure pleasure on his face again, but this time, with him deep, deep inside her.

She slumped down at her kitchen table and stared at her drawn curtains. Should she take another peek? Would she dare? No. She fought herself. I’ve invaded the man’s privacy enough. I’ve broken enough laws.

What if Jackson called the police?

She shook her head. No. She remembered the pleasure on his face as he glanced up and saw her. No. He liked it. He liked it when she watched.

But who was that woman? Girlfriend? Escort? She wasn’t sure which would be worse. She didn’t like the idea of him having a girlfriend, an intimate, loving relationship, but she also didn’t like the idea of him paying for sex, either. She heard a door slam in the alley and curiosity got the better of her. She jostled the curtain a centimeter and peered down. The woman he’d just had sex with slipped into an Uber waiting in the alley.

Definitely not a girlfriend, she thought. Then...what?

Chloe thought about the man in his big three-story building all by himself, sated now, maybe even still naked. Maybe rinsing off in the shower. For a split second, a crazy thought ran through her head...what if I went over? Rang his doorbell?

Instantly, she dismissed the thought. Really? She was going to...what? Tell him she was sorry for spying? Or ask him to do exactly what he’d just done to that woman to her?

Her inner thighs tingled at the thought. Heat rose in her abdomen again. She’d only just taken care of that. Hadn’t she? Yet, was she wanting this again? So soon? Just the thought of seeing Jackson made her wet.

No. He’d think she was crazy. Wouldn’t he?

After she watched the Uber drive away, she glanced back up at the new neighbor’s windows. She didn’t see him, and figured he’d moved to his room, though his blinds were still wide-open. Maybe he’d forget about the whole thing. Maybe he’d pretend it never happened. Maybe that was what she should do as well.

Then she saw him return with a bar of white soap in his hand and a small bowl of water. What was he...? She hid once more as he came to the windows. The idea of him seeing her spying more made her face flame with embarrassment. She waited for a few minutes, breathing hard.

Go to bed, Chloe, she told herself. What are you even doing?

She waited a few more moments that felt like hours. Should she look? Once more? What was he doing with that bar of soap?

Chloe peeked around the curtain, leaving just enough space for one eye. The living room was now empty. No sign of Jackson.

But he’d used the soap to write a message on his window. It was big enough for her to read.

Next time, want to do more than watch?

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