Page 64 of Revenge Puck

“Jeez,” I mutter. “Is this where he lives?”

I take one cautious step out of the elevator.

Then another.

At the end of the room looms a large door and, in the center of it, etched into brushed gold metal, instead of an apartment number:

P

Pfor Penthouse.

My stomach drops straight through the marble floor.

Oh my god.

I clutch the cookie box tighter to my chest.

“I do not belong here.”

This isn’t a casual hangout location. This is a man with expensive taste and high standards and probably a stock portfolio, who lives in a building so far above my paygrade, I barely know how to behave.

My brother certainly doesn’t live like this. His condo in the sky is more like every bachelor pad you’ve seen in the movies: stark and modern and full of take-out containers. Wet towels on the bathroom floor, even when he knows he’s having company. Pizza boxes on his shiny stone counters that he can never manage to keep clean.

I know with certainty that behind that one massive door labeledPlies the opposite of those things. Lies my Hall Pass. Seriously, how many women get the opportunity to sleep with theirs? Not that I’m here for sex—god no, that’s not me at all. But I am curious, and I did make the pact with Blaire, and if I chicken out now, she’ll kill me.

On the other hand, this is so unlike me.

I do not put the moves on men!

The rubber soles of my sneakers squeak when I slowly turn back toward the elevator, breathing an audible sigh of relief to see that the doors haven’t closed and it hasn’t descended to the lower floors.

“Thank god it’s still here.” I can leave.

My getaway car.

I step back toward it, the tip of my shoe over the threshold of my escape plan when the one door in the room opens. One more step, then another.

“Going somewhere?”

Oh my god.

Every muscle in my body locks.

I don’t turn to face Aaron right away because if I don’t see him, does he see me? Maybe he’ll disappear. Maybe this is a hallucination brought on by anxiety and the overwhelming scent of browned butter and chocolate chips.

“Um…” I pivot slowly.

Aaron Bishop is leaning his big body against the massive penthouse door, looking dangerous and handsome. Barefoot. Navy sweats. Fitted T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Shit. Men in sweatpants are my weakness.

He lifts one eyebrow, waiting.

“I forgot something in my car,” I blurt out.

A low chuckle. “Oh? What did you forget?” he asks.

“I—”Think, Juliette, think.