Chapter 2 Alessandra

Who the hell has a tutor come at dinnertime? I already have this dude pegged: old, crotchety, and single as hell. Quinn Kingsley clearly doesn’t have a wife or a family if he’s scheduling tutoring sessions during dinnertime.

These are the thoughts that keep me occupied from the station to the building. I reach the steps and glance up from the maps app for the first time. And then up. . .up. . .up. The building climbs to high-freaking-heaven. Kingsley Tower is engraved in bold letters across the gorgeous dark stone.

Kingsley.

I’m tutoring the owner of Kingsley Tower?

Deep breaths. What do I know about Kingsley Tower? Nothing. Well, not nothing. Money. Lots and lots of money. The interior of the elevator says it all with its pristine interior.

I catch my reflection and could cry at the sight. My cheeks are flushed and my hair is windblown. Either I spent the last fifteen minutes in a mad dash, or I just had the best sex of my life. Regardless, this ketchup stain definitely doesn’t speak of lots and lots of money. I quickly roll up the sleeves of my cardigan to conceal it.

The doors ding and slide open.

“Hello.” A dark-haired receptionist greets me with a tight-lipped smile. “Hi, there,” I say before clearing my throat. “Hi. I’m here to—well, I’m here to replace Sal this evening. The tutor? He—he had a heart attack and has been hospitalized. It was unexpected. So, here I am. For Mr. Kingsley.”

Her smile never falters. “I’ll tell Mr. Kingsley he has a guest,” she says unflinchingly, as if an old man having a heart attack is old news. She disappears through the massive wooden door behind her desk.

Thank God. I have a moment to breathe.

I lean on the edge of her desk. Maybe it is old news. Maybe Mr. Kingsley already knows and wasn’t expecting anyone to show up tonight in Sal’s place. Maybe he’d prefer to reschedule. Why didn’t I think of that before trekking all the way here? A cool sensation of calm washes over me, even as my heart still pounds in my ears.

The doors reopen.

“Mr. Kingsley is ready to see you.”

Damn.

“Excellent,” I hear myself saying.

“Right this way,” she says, already opening the door.

“Thank you so much.” I’ve always been polite, if not brave, during a crisis.

The door clicks behind me as I enter the most beautiful office arrangement I have ever seen. Honestly, it doesn’t look like an office much at all. It’s almost like a penthouse suite, with gorgeous lounge chairs, bookshelves, and the faint smell of leather floating in the air. The windows overlooking the city are enormous, not obscured by an obnoxious CEO desk or “boss man” chair. The city is completely open, spread out before my eyes.

Mesmerized, I walk toward the windows.

“Do you like the view?”

I turn my head. In the corner of the room sits a man behind a desk. I completely missed him as I walked in. The muted shade of his gray three-piece suit is a pleasant contrast with the simple black leather of his recliner.

Most pleasant of all, however, is that this man is the flesh-and-blood embodiment of every Tall, Dark, Shut-Up-So-Handsome magazine cutout on my vision board.

“Originally, the desk was there,” he says, removing a pair of metal-framed glasses, “but I prefer to look out a window rather than block the view.” He stands, offering me his hand. “Quinn Kingsley.”

I walk to him with a smile, extending my own hand. His grasp is firm and soft, and maybe a little demanding. I accept with hidden excitement that Quinn Kingsley is most definitely not old or crotchety. And from the lack of a ring on his finger, he may very well be single as hell.

“Alessandra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His dark eyes assess me with an air of flirtation. I can tell by the way one eyebrow lifts as he studies my face, and my cheeks flush. Oh boy.

“You’re from the agency. Where is Sal?”

“I apologize that no one informed you sooner. I’ll be replacing Sal for the coming weeks.”

He frowns. “I’ve only ever worked with Sal.” He furrows his dark brows, clearly displeased with the prospect of learning from me. This bothers me more than I care to admit.

“I’m afraid he isn’t in any state to teach right now,” I reply coolly. “He suffered a heart attack and is recovering in the hospital.”

This puts my new client in his place, but I immediately feel guilty. A flush of concern flits across his features before settling into an expression I can’t decipher, and he releases my hand.

How long have we been connected? My fingers tingle at the loss of contact, and I swallow.

“I’d be happy to pick up where Sal left with you. I’m completely fluent,” I say with the confidence of someone ten years my elder. If I’m to be fired before even getting a chance, at least no one can say I wasn’t assertive enough.

“I don’t doubt that,” he says softly.

It eases my anxiety the slightest bit. My gaze wanders to the window, and the skyscrapers and winding highways beyond. "This is the most beautiful view," I say.

"I couldn't agree more." But rather than looking at the horizon, his gaze is locked on mine, and there's a hint of a smile on his full lips. A warm shiver races down my spine.

He gestures to the far side of the window, where two sofa chairs face each other. “Let’s sit.”

I turn and walk before him, acutely aware of my lack of formal dress. My skin tingles with awareness of his gaze on my exposed neck where my hair is swept hurriedly over one shoulder. But when I turn to meet his eyes again, he’s looking at the small book laying on the coffee table.

“An Advanced Student’s Guide to Italian,” I read aloud. “Is this the text Sal has you working from?”

“No.” He leans back in one chair as I sit in the other. “That’s more of a prop. Tricks clientele into asking about my interests, makes it more personal.”

When he smirks at the word personal, I find myself smirking back.