Juice: (An Alpha Male Billionaire Romance - Part 3) (Juice: The Series) by Victoria Starke

Chapter One
    “Here ya go!” I say, dropping the order with a thud on the
front desk.
    I am out of here.
    “Ma’am!” security calls after me. “Mr. Chase asked to send
you up with the delivery.”
    Of course he did.
    The tech billionaire with a pile of cash and all the toys
gets everything brought right to him. For a moment I think of pretending not to
hear, but then reconsider.
    “Sure!” I smile and grab the two boxes.
    The doors close to the high speed elevator and the vivid
memory of my first encounter with Everett hits me like a train. I was
overwhelmed by the skyscraper’s opulence, his forthright invitation, and dropping
a dozen bottles of Namaste’s fresh juice cleanse all over the floor.
Everything happened so fast and then seemed to disappear. I’m not making that
mistake again.
    My ears pop and I remember Everett’s apartment is at a
thousand feet elevation. Only New York’s most filthy rich would isolate
themselves floating in the air for all to see. The elevator’s ascent slows
abruptly and my stomach lurches as the doors open.
    “Bronwyn, there you are. Come in!” he greets me as I push
through the front door left ajar. He’s wearing the bottom half of crisply
tailored charcoal suit, a white double-cuffed oxford shirt, and bare feet.
    “Here’s your order, just as requested,” I say dryly. “And, I
thank you for your loyalty.”
    “No, thank you . Sorry it was another late one! I’m
sure you have better things to do this evening,” he says.
    “Yes, I do,” I can’t allow him to get to me so easily.
    I’ve actually been checking my phone constantly the past
three weeks for a call, a text, a smoke signal, anything, and hating myself for
it.
    “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long,” he says. “I just had
to see you since I’ve been in Singapore the past couple weeks. I just got off
the plane.”
    “Singapore?”
    “Yes. We’re wrapping up the sale of some property.
Paperwork. Boring stuff, really,” he says.
    Okay, a good excuse.
    “Anyway, let’s have a drink to celebrate the end of the
week. What can I offer?”
    “Make it a whiskey, neat.”
    “Sure. Bourbon, rye, Irish…?”
    “Just give me your best, Everett.”
    “Very good,” he says and disappears to another room.
    I show myself into the living room and my heels echo loudly
on the dark wood. I run my finger along the top of the supple leather sofa
until I reach the matching suit jacket he’s tossed across the back. I roll the
fabric between my thumb and forefinger and admire the stitching. I steal a
glance inside but there’s no label.
    Our first encounter happened right here. It feels like years
ago.
    I continue on to the floor to ceiling windows and walk up
the edge of the glass. This view could never get old. My eyes unfocus and trace
north along the Central Park trails to Sheep’s Meadow, the reservoir, and into
Harlem. The height is giving me a touch of vertigo again and I step back.
    “You can probably see Canada on a clear day,” I call out.
    I feel him sneaking up behind me and play along. His arms
circle around me in a warm embrace. I lean back against him.
    “Here, I brought presents. Two Jefferson bourbons, neat.”
    I turn to face him. “Thank you.” We lock eyes and sip. The
liquor is smooth and warm on my tongue, and I take it down happily. He’s a
cocky brat, but he does have excellent taste. I break and walk away.
    “So, you got me again. Last minute order, same-day drop-off,
and a personal delivery by yours truly, Bronwyn Cole. Happy to see me?”
    “Of course,” he says, “I’ve been looking forward to seeing
you since I left. I thought you’d want to see me, too.”
    “Yes. Some warning would be great, though. And normally we
have a courier deliver.”
    “Correct. But doesn’t food taste best presented by the chef?
Speaking of, I have a standing reservation at an excellent steak house on the
east side. Unless you can’t break your plans with your boss, Perry, tonight?”
he