Page 25 of My Totally Unfair Deal

TWELVE

ELIZA

The cologne Harrison’s wearing is different from what he wore in Tennessee, and it’s beyond intoxicating.

It’s spicy and woodsy, the kind that makes you want to lean into his chest and inhale it for hours while he runs his fingers through your hair.

Well—ifsomeone were attracted to him, that is.

They’dthink that.

Not me.

He pulls into a reserved parking space with his name on the placard. Glancing to the left, I realize the entire row is filled with luxury cars—and every spot bears his name.

“Do you really make this much money training women to be Stepford-wife-adjacent?”

“You’re technically my first client in that department,” he says, putting the car in park. “And no. Most of my money comes from a business I run.”

“What business? Stocks? Something you started yourself?”

“Well, look at that.” He turns to face me, a cocky grin tugging at his lips. “Youdoknow how to hold a civil conversation. I’m impressed.”

He steps out without answering the question, and before I can open my door, he’s already there—pulling it open for me.

“I’m not allowed to open my own door now?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t when you’re with me,” he says simply. “It’s a manners thing.”

“Oh…”

“Yes.” That grin again. “Oh.”

“Welcome back, Mr. Jones.” A security guard approaches with a cart. “Do you have any luggage you’d like me to take upstairs?”

“Yes, Harold. Thank you.” He pops the trunk, then gestures toward me. “This is Eliza Hart. She’s the sister of a very good friend of mine, and she’ll be staying with me for a while.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harold says with a polite tip of his hat, already shifting focus to our bags.

Harrison motions for me to follow him to the elevator. As soon as the doors slide shut, he stares at me.

He looks like he’s about to say something sharp—another snide remark about something I’ve done wrong. But no words come.

The elevator reaches the top floor in silence, and the doors glide open.

He gestures for me to step out first, and I nearly gasp when I do.

An immaculate hallway stretches out in front of me, all creamy marble and soft lighting.

At the end of the corridor, Harrison unlocks a sleek black glass door and lets me step inside first.

New York’s glittering skyline greets me through floor-to-ceiling windows. I can’t help but wander toward them, drawn like a moth.

“Who the hell isthisbitch?”

The voice—shrill, unapologetic—yanks me back to reality.

Assuming it’s the ex I overheard earlier, I turn around, ready to respond.

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