Page 105 of Burn Bright
I’m about to spend the night with Ben.
24
HARRIET FISHER
This isn’t just the fanciest apartment building I’ve stepped foot in—this is the nicestplaceperiod. Besides the gold fixtures, the pristinely clean marble floors upon entering the lobby, the lavender smell like I’ve been bath-bombed by Lush—the exclusiveness is nothing I’ve encountered before.
The bell hop, entrance security, and some manager lady named Susanne all ask memultiple timeswho I’m here to see. They scan my ID in a machine. They flag downmoresecurity like I’m lying. They start making me believe Cobalt Stalker is printed on my forehead.
Ben did offer to meet me in the lobby. I told him, “I have feet, Cobalt boy. I don’t need an escort. Just tell me your apartment number.”
Mistake made.
This is just a giant reminder that having Ben at my side isn’t a knock on my capabilities. He just makes tough moments less fucking tiresome. By the end of this exchange, I have verified my name ten times.
Yes, I am Harriet Stevie Fisher.
TheHarriet that Ben Cobalt said would be arriving.
And the staff gives me a lukewarm apology. “People your age are usually the ones trying to sneak into the building to see the Cobalts. We’ve had over twenty attempts this summer since the Hales moved in. We can’t be too careful. Have a nice night, ma’am.” ID returned to me, I am now headed up the elevator, just glad there wasn’t a full-body search.
Clearly the average twentysomething isn’t renting an apartment here. Before I step on the 21stfloor, the elevator lets out a polite ding.
Wow, even the elevator is prissy.
I’m out of my element, but it never stops me from trudging ahead. Shifting the weight of my backpack on my shoulder, I march down the hallway. Deep red walls. Warm lighting. I dig it. I could live here—notthat he’s asking me to move in, okay.Take a thousand hikes backward, Harriet.
I’m not obsessed with Ben Cobalt. I just like the building’s moody décor. Yep…I smack my lips, then I stop at door 2166.
I knock.
Fast-building anticipation rouses my nerves. I wait, smoothing my lips together, glancing left and right. Is there a doorbell?
Nope.
I rap my fist harder. He’s not standing you up.This isn’t a practical joke.He’s your friend. You’re fine. I hush the dusty insecurities that crawl out from under an ugly old sofa in my brain. He’s probably just taking a shit or watering a plant or…
A door opens from down the hall, and I twist my head to see a gorgeous girl slipping on silver high heels while tucking a glittery clutch under her armpit. She’s bouncing in an attempt to cram her foot in the shoe.
Shit, she sees me watching—or scowling.
Confusion pinches her brown brows.Stop staring, Harriet.After the pseudo-FBI interrogation downstairs due to beingyoung, I expected to run into middle-aged Wall Street brokers. Not someone who looks around my age.
“Hey,” she calls out, more curious. I am the guest. She’s a tenant…maybe? She could be visiting someone too.
“Hi,” I say, more gruffly.
Heels on, the girl tugs down the short silver cocktail dress that molds her slender, athletic frame and complements her golden-brown skin. Fuck, she’s walking this way. She never takes her eyes off me, not even as I knock again.
She’s quickly undoing her double French braids. Shaking out the dark brown curls, she slows and sees which apartment I’m trying to enter.
2166.
She laughs hard. “Oh trust me, whoever you are. You don’t want to go in there. The whole apartment has a stench of smug male ego. It’s foul.” The door swings open on her last word.
I flinch but don’t move as…ugh fuck, it’s not Ben. I’m greeted by one of his older brothers.
Beckett is only in a white terry clothtowel.He has one hand on the door frame, another on the knot of the towel at his waist. Water drips down his jawline, his hair wet, but it’s his body—not even the tattoos on his bicep—that literally tries to magnetize my eyeballs.
