This Time He Pursues Me With All Chapter 20

I called Chloe from outside the office. "Hey, are you free right now?"

"Of course! What's up? Want to hang out?"

"Can you pick up Amy from daycare? My car's ready. I need to go get it."

"No problem. I'll bring her back to my place."

I ended the call and pulled up the address Adam had sent. 50 Liberty Drive, Penthouse 2201.

I frowned at the screen. That was in the Seaport District. Why the hell would a repair shop deliver my car there?

I checked the time. 5:43. Amy was covered. No rush.

I decided to save the cab fare and take the T.

---

By the time I got off at the World Trade Center stop and walked the rest of the way, it was past 7:00.

The sun hung low over the harbor, casting long shadows across the glass towers. I stopped in front of 50 Liberty and stared up.

All glass. All sleek. All fucking expensive.

*This has to be his place.*

I pulled out my phone and double-checked the address. Penthouse 2201. Top floor.

I looked around for my car. Nothing.

Maybe the valet parked it. Or maybe the repair shop left it in the building's garage.

I walked up to the entrance and pressed the buzzer for 2201.

The intercom crackled. Then Adam's voice came through, flat and cold. "Come up."

The door clicked open.

I stepped inside.

---

The lobby was spotless. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. A doorman nodded at me as I crossed to the elevator.

I pressed PH2201 and watched the numbers climb.

My stomach twisted tighter with every floor.

*Why did he tell me to come here? Where's my car?*

The elevator doors slid open directly into the penthouse.

I stepped out.

Adam stood a few feet away, in a dark gray tank top and black athletic shorts. His skin had a faint sheen to it, his chest heaving slightly as if he'd just stopped moving. His arms—usually hidden under layers of fabric—looked massive, the muscles congested and hard, veins mapping the length of his forearms.

He looked raw. Powerful.

He glanced at me, his expression unreadable, then turned toward the hallway.

I blinked, thrown off by the sheer amount of skin on display. "Wait—Adam, where's my car?"

"I need a shower," he said, not breaking his stride.

"Now?" I hurried after him. "Can't you just give me the car first?"

He didn't answer. Instead, his hands went to the hem of his tank top.

My steps faltered. "Adam?"

In one smooth motion, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it onto a nearby chair.

I froze.

His back was broad, the muscles shifting like sculpted marble as he moved. A sheen of sweat clung to his skin, highlighting the deep groove of his spine.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cool. "Make yourself comfortable. I won't be long."

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar before kicking it shut.

I stood there for a full ten seconds, staring at the closed door, my face heating up.

*What the hell was that?*

I turned and marched into the living room, dropping onto the gray sectional. I crossed my legs, bouncing my foot impatiently. *I am here for the car. Just the car.*

Then the sound of the shower started.

The hiss of water hitting tile.

My imagination, traitor that it was, immediately supplied a visual. Adam standing under the spray. The water sluicing over those broad shoulders, down that defined back...

I squeezed my eyes shut. *Stop it, Maya.*

I tried to focus on the view of the harbor, on the expensive art, on anything but the man naked just a few walls away. But the sound of the water was relentless. It reminded me of mornings in Cleveland, of a cramped shower in a small apartment where we didn't care about the lack of space.

Ten minutes later, the water stopped.

Silence. Then footsteps.

I looked up as Adam appeared in the doorway.

He was wearing a white bathrobe now, loosely tied at the waist. His hair was wet, darker than usual, slicked back from his face. The robe ended just above his knees, exposing strong, defined calves.

My breath caught in my throat.

He walked toward me slowly, every step deliberate.

I couldn't look away. Water slid down the side of his face, along his jawline, pooling at the base of his throat before slipping lower, into the hollow of his collarbone.

*Fuck.*

My face burned hotter than before.

I forced my eyes up to his face, trying to find some semblance of composure.

He stopped a few feet away, wiping a stray drop from his forehead. "What?"

I swallowed hard. "You—why did you have to shower right now?"

He looked at me like it was a stupid question. "I just finished working out, Maya. I was dripping sweat. I was hot."

"You could have told me where the car was first," I muttered, looking anywhere but his chest.

"I was uncomfortable," he said flatly. "Why would I wait?"

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. There was no winning with him.

He walked closer, stopping right in front of me.

The scent of clean soap mixed with the lingering heat of his body drifted toward me. It was intoxicating. My pulse jumped against my will.

He stared down at me, his eyes dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

He reached down and grabbed my chin, his fingers cool and damp, tilting my face up toward his.

"Maya." His voice was low. Almost mocking. "You don't think I want to sleep with you, do you?"

My eyes widened. "I—no!"

"Good." He let go and straightened, adjusting the lapel of his robe. "Because you're completely average. I'm not interested."

I stared at him, the shock hitting me first, then the indignation.

*Average?*

Heat rushed through me—anger this time, scorching and real.

I shot to my feet. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

I glared at him. *Asshole.*

He had no right to say that. Not when he used to spend five nights a week in my bed. Not when he used to look at me like I was the only person in the room.

But I couldn't say any of that.

So I shoved the memory down and crossed my arms, shielding myself. "Where's my car?"

He walked past me toward the kitchen, ignoring my glare. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water.

I watched his throat work as he drank. The bathrobe shifted slightly, exposing a glimpse of his chest.

*Stop staring.*

I turned my head sharply and focused on the window.

He set the glass down with a thud. "Your car?"

"Yes. My car. You said it was ready."

"I didn't."

I whipped around. "What?"

"The repair shop hasn't finished."

"Then why did you tell me to come here?"

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Why didn't you answer my calls?"

I froze. "What calls?"

"My new number. I called you last Sunday. You ignored me."

"I didn't see them."

"Bullshit."