Broken Headboards: Nights In New York Series Book 3 Read online

  Finally done with all the cooking, he points toward the balcony, motioning for me to follow him. My breath catches in my throat as I see the carefully set table, the scenario simply too idyllic. On top of the white tablecloth draped over the table, there’s a pitcher of orange juice flanked by two plates of toasts and butter, and there’s a bowl filled with grapes to the side.

  “What a gentleman,” I laugh as he pulls my chair back. Sitting down, I let my gaze wander over New York City skyline. No matter how many times I see it, it never gets old. And even though I get the chance to see a view like this every day—I live at Clarendon Tower as well—there’s nothing quite like sharing the moment...especially when it involves Austin.

  Yeah, I can’t believe I’m saying it either. But as insufferable as he might be, there’s no denying it—I actually enjoy being around him, even if half the time we’re at each other’s throats. I guess the old trope of enemies to lovers still remains true, right?

  “Oh, crap,” I slap my forehead, frowning as I realize that I’m missing something.

  “What?”

  “I don’t have my probiotic shake,” I groan as I lean back.

  I know, what a petty thing to say when you have an actual billionaire cooking you breakfast, but what do you want me to say? You don’t get to have a body like mine if you don’t maintain it. And yes, that means working my butt off at the gym and being careful with what I put inside my mouth. And, also, yes...I know that there’s a dirty joke somewhere there.

  “It’s a good thing I pay attention, then,” Austin merely laughs, folding his arms over his chest.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whenever I see you leaving Clarendon Tower in the morning you’re always carrying some awful green goo with you. And, most disturbing of all, you’re actually drinking it.”

  “It’s my health,” I shrug.

  “I know,” he laughs, and then just flashes me a grin when the sound of his doorbell ringing drifts onto the balcony. Without a word, he just gets up from his seat and goes to get the door. When he returns he has a probiotic shake in his hands. And it’s the exact same brand I drink.

  “I’m not too sure if I got the brand and flavor right, but I think this’ll do,” he says. “I sent my manservant to get it.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” I posit.

  “Am I?” he asks. “I thought I was being nice.”

  “You trying to throw me off base here?” I ask. “Be nice to me so I won’t see you stabbing me in the back?”

  He smirks. Cocky asshole.

  “Maybe I’m trying to throw you off by using the word ‘manservant’” he says with a chuckle.

  I can’t help myself and I laugh too.

  He may be a cocky asshole. But he makes me laugh. And he’s kind.

  I pour some orange juice into my glass and tear into breakfast. After the amazing sex we had last night, I feel ravenous. And yeah, I know I told you I was super disciplined when it comes to my diet but screw it. I kinda burned a lot of calories last night, so I guess I get a free pass this morning.

  Besides, now I have my probiotic shake to balance things out.

  From time to time, I steal a glance at Austin. I still can’t believe he actually sent for his butler or whatever to go get me a probiotic shake. Not exactly a romantic gesture but, at the same time, it makes me feel something.

  I guess he isn’t the asshole I thought he was.

  Keep your cool, Tess, I hear my own voice inside my head. Don’t fall for this guy, remember what’s at stake.

  Right, billions of dollars and enough prestige to get me in the covers of magazines all over the country. Thank you, random disembodied voice inside my head, I remember what’s at stake.

  But even though I know exactly what’s at stake, I never think about any of that during breakfast. Somehow, and for the first time in weeks, my mind actually lets go off all the stress...and I just enjoy the moment.

  And it feels good, you know?

  To sit out here, the early morning sun bathing the whole balcony as we enjoy each other’s company. We talk about nothing and everything, and I laugh over and over again. He should be my sworn enemy, and yet...I simply feel at ease when I’m around him.

  “I never thought I’d meet someone like you,” he suddenly says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I’ve been working in this industry for ages now. And I love it, you know? I enjoy being given the chance to create something new from scratch, and offer it to the world. Almost everyone else, though, just does it for the money. There’s no—”

  “Passion,” I cut him short, finishing his sentence. “I know what you mean. I actually started learning the ropes with my father. He owned a small carpentry shop, and he did every piece of furniture by hand. It was a hard process, but he loved every second of it. For him it was never about the money. It was about the process. I think I always carried that with me, and that’s part of my company’s success. Money is fine, of course. But if money was all I wanted, I would’ve probably ended up in some other industry.”

  “We’re not so different then, are we?” he asks me, offering me an honest to goodness smile.

  “Seems like it,” I admit. “But it doesn’t matter much, does it? We’ll still have to fight once I leave this apartment.”

  He does a slight pause, looking straight into my eyes, and then nods slowly.

  “I guess so. There can only be one, right?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I know might sound cold right now, but believe me—after last night, I’m not exactly happy about the fact that Austin will remain an enemy. But what can we do? It’s a dog-eat-dog world, after all.

  “You live very well, Austin,” I say looking over his balcony.

  “So do you, Tess,” he says back to me.

  We finish breakfast in silence, and then I head into the bedroom to get dressed. When I’m finally ready to head out, he stops me right before I leave.

  “After you step out that door, we’ll be at each other’s throats again,” he tells me, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s a question or a statement.

  “Yes,” I nod, my heart tightening as I do it. “Back at each other’s throats.” It shouldn’t be hard for me to say these words, but the truth is that I no longer enjoy the way they sound.

  “You think there could ever be a happily ever after for us?” I ask against my better judgment.

  “One of us would have to win, and the other would have to lose, Tess,” he says to me. “I don’t know if we could do a happily ever after with that.”

  “I thought romance novels usually had to end happy,” I say, a bit glum.

  “Who says we’re not in a thriller?” he asks with a grin, and I put dark thoughts out of my mind.

  As I finally leave and wait for the elevator to come and get me, I look back over my shoulder at the door to his apartment. I remember the way we stumbled inside after we left the Ritz-Carlton, both our bodies and minds still burning from the show we put on.

  God, what’s wrong with me?

  To be honest, that’s a question I’ve been asking myself every day. But I can’t escape him. It’s a stupid thing to say, but I don’t know how else to put it. Even now, as we agreed to go back to the way things were, I couldn’t help but feel a note of sadness well up inside of me.

  Is this how it’s going to be forever?

  Eternal rivals, trying to crush each other?

  I should be used to the idea, but somehow I find myself hating it. And, worst of all, I’m anxious about what he feels about the whole thing.

  Oh, Tess, what’s happening to you?, that voice inside my head returns once more.

  The answer?

  I have no idea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tess

  “The lines are delicate,” I say, dramatically brushing my hand over the surface of the dining table. “The delicacy is understated but it’s sensual and classy too. It elicits something on you, doesn’t it? And
, best of all, the size is adjustable.” I demonstrate by folding the ends of the table, carefully sliding them into the barely noticeable partitions on the center.

  “IIn a studio apartment, you have to know how to leverage size,” I continue. “And with a table like this, we can quickly find a lot of room in our small studio apartment, can’t we? I’d go as far as say we’d have enough room to tango.”

  That draws a few laughs, and I throw Austin a quick glance, the frown on his face making me smile even more. There are bags under his bloodshot eyes, and even though he’s still impeccably dressed, I can tell that he spent the whole night trying to finish his project. For all his talk of superiority and confidence, he’s starting to falter.

  And the world is made right once more.

  I was feeling a bit down after that night in his apartment, but there’s nothing quite like winning a battle to lift your spirits. And even though Austin and Willis still have to present their dining table, I think I’ve done enough to secure the lead this time around.

  “Well, that was an interesting presentation, Tess,” Taylor tells me, joining the audience as everyone gives me a round of applause. “We’re all very impressed, as always. Now, Willy, the stage is all yours.”

  As I return to my seat, a spring in my step, Willis clears his throat and jumps out from his seat. As he stands in front of both the board and the audience, he nervously runs one hand through his hair, a cowlick immediately showing on his prissy hair.

  “I think you’re going to enjoy what I brought here today,” he starts. For the first time in the competition, he actually sounds confident. I’m curious to see what someone like him feels confident about. Dashing toward his table, still covered in the usual white sheet, he then turns toward the audience.

  “Have you ever thought ‘gee, I need to unwind after a stressful day’? And then you get home, sit inside your studio apartment and realize that there’s nothing for you to do? Well, today I bring a solution to that.” With a quick gesture, he pulls the sheet back to reveal—

  Oh, is he actually being serious right now?

  “I call it the dinner-pong table!” He declares rather dramatically, waving one hand at his green table. It folds on the center, and has white markings all over it. Fishing a net out from his pocket, Willis stretches it across the center of the table and then one of his helpers’ hands him a red ping-pong racket.

  I place my hand over my mouth, trying to stop myself from bursting out laughing. Is this his idea of a classy dining table for the most expensive building in New York?

  But he’s not done yet.

  “But what if you don’t have a spouse or friend to play with?” He continues, and then rushes around the table, releasing a few latches underneath it. Pushing up one half of the table, he then races back to his initial position and fishes a small ball from his pocket. “Then no worries! Because the dinner-pong table supports a single player!”

  To demonstrate, he bounces the ball off the table and swats it with his racket. It hits the raised half of the table, and then bounces back to him. For the next thirty seconds, the whole room sits in silence as Willis plays ping-pong against himself, his expression of pure concentration almost admirable.

  “That’s...impressive, Wally,” Taylor tells him, reaching behind him and laying one hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop. That distracts Willis, and the ball actually bounces back against his forehead—but that doesn’t stop him from trying to swat it anyway. He swings on his heels fast, bringing the racket up and around, and Taylor ducks under his arm right on time.

  I watch the rest happen in slow-motion.

  Willis’s fingers slowly become looser around the handle of the racket, and the damn thing flies across the conference room in a wild arch, straight toward the board. Everyone ducks, but the VP isn’t fast enough—the racket hits him straight in the face, and blood starts gushing from his nose a split second later.

  “OUT!” The vice president roars, going up to his feet as he clutches his bloody nose. “NOW!”

  “But,” Willis stammers, “I still haven’t talked about the drawers!” In a nervous rush, he starts opening the drawers hiding under his table. Then he starts removing a fucking mountain of board games from inside them, stacking them on top of the table.

  “I think that’s enough, Waldo,” Taylor tells him gently, patting him on the back. “He’ll calm down later,” he adds, pointing with his thumb toward the VP. “But for now I think it’s best you leave. It’s Austin’s turn anyway.”

  Dejected, the poor guy drags his feet out of the conference room, his eyes downcast.

  “What the actual fuck?” I hear Austin whisper to himself, shaking his head as he walks past me. He buttons his jacket up, then heads toward the front of the room, ready to do his presentation.

  “Thank you, Taylor,” he says with a quick nod, then moves straight toward the Oakmont corner. Without any introductory speech, he simply reveals his table and then turns his attention back to the audience.

  “Solid,” he slaps down his hand on the tabletop. “And powerful.”

  Well, shit. Not a dramatic entrance, but he’s sure as hell his being dramatic about the table. Although, to be fair, he absolutely nailed it with his choice of adjectives—his table seems to be the most robust in the whole room, and its straight lines add a certain powerful element to it. It would look right at home in the house of someone that fancied himself powerful. Which covers, of course, most billionaires in the world.

  I remain confident, though. Despite seeing a glimpse of Austin’s genius on his work, I can already think of a few improvements to what he did. I can tell that he only came up with it at the eleventh hour. As such, he probably had to rush through the project, and didn’t have the time to sand off the rough edges.

  “Very well,” Taylor says with an appraising nod. He turns toward the board, all members busy scribbling down on their notepads, and then he walks up to confer with them. A few seconds later and he turns around, hands on his hips as he stares at each and every one of the competitors.

  “Austin,” he starts, and my heart picks up the pace. Am I going to lose this one? “Your design left quite an impression on everyone. Despite that, we can only award you five points. Ms. Armstrong win this round.”

  Fucking right I win this round.

  25 to 20, and I’m just getting started!

  Chapter Nineteen

  Austin

  “A round of shots for the boy,” Taylor shouts over to the waitress, who’s dressed in a skimpy plaid skirt and a black vest.

  Usually, I’d find myself whispering sweet nothings into her ear. I’m not ashamed to admit that I like the attention of a woman with big tits and a fine ass, both of which the waitress has.

  But for some reason, I’m not keen on pursuing her tonight.

  Knowing a woman like Tess exists nulls my desire to even talk to another women. What’s the point? Tess is the epitome of femininity but with a fierceness that can only match my own.

  She is my match. And, a fucking gorgeous one at that.

  I shoot Taylor a menacing glare. “Seriously, man? What the fuck are you doing?” I lean over the table and yell at him.

  “I figured you’d like something to take the sting out of your last loss,” Taylor fakes a frown. “Tess is at it again.”

  “Fuck you,” I say, flipping my middle finger up at him.

  “No, I think you’re looking to fuck her,” he say.

  Dominic pats me on the back, like a fucking big brother, and chimes in. “We’ve all been there, man,” he says. “Caught up in a woman.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his whisky.

  “What do you mean?” I turn to him.

  “I think you know what I mean,” he cocks his eyebrow up, like he knows something I don’t.

  “Apparently I don’t know what you mean…” I jab back looking to the other guys for help, hoping they can clue me on whatever the fuck he is alluding to.

  This is supposed to be
a guy’s weekend. No holds-barred, let loose type of getaway to Aspen. But it’s turning into a pity party with me as their crowned bitch.

  “Here you go boys,” the waitress places the tray of tequila shots on the table. “Hopefully this’ll make you feel better, lover,” she stares at me and flicks her tongue across her teeth.

  “I’m sure it’ll do something like that,” I scoot my ass closer to the table and pick up the glass, holding it up to her. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” she says, then winks and twists away, heading back to some rowdy customers.

  You’d be surprised how crowded Aspen gets at night. Even in an exclusive lounge like Access—where we each paid $10k each to get in—it’s still buzzing with people.

  But Aspen doesn’t house just any people. Every New York City executive, Hollywood director and wandering socialite gathers here, making this a prime location for yours truly. I am elite, and my boys only add to my status.

  I’m sure Tara’s introduced you to them already, baby. But if you haven’t, I should let you know—we’re all fucking badasses. We are the puppet-masters of New York City. Each of our hands orchestrating a part of it, from banks to gyms to even criminal organizations.

  I might not have been born and raised there, like the rest of them, but I’ve made a similar impact. Check anyone’s apartment or house—from Manhattan to the Hamptons—and you’ll find me there. Everyone knows my name and if they don’t, then they’re not worth knowing. That sounds cold, I know, but it’s the truth.

  “Malcolm, when did you know that Sonia was the one?” I ask him, casually as I think about who else is in New York.

  Tess.

  “Oh, the fucking moment I met her. I just knew. I don’t know what it was but when I laid my eyes on her, it was instant. The sex didn’t hurt either,” he laughs and gulps down his tequila shot.

  “And you, Colt?” I twist back to him.

  “That’s when you know she’s the right one. When she can spar with you and challenge you to be a better version of yourself. Yeah, there is a better version if you can believe it,” Colt chimes in.