One Summer In New York. Trish Wylie

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       CHAPTER ONE

      “WHY IS YOUR face blue?”

      Holly froze in shock. She had just opened the door to the apartment she’d expected to find empty. But instead of flicking on the lights in a vacant living room she’d walked in on lamps already blazing. And a shirtless man sitting in the center of the sofa. Reading a newspaper. A gorgeous brown-haired shirtless man was reading a newspaper.

      “Why is your face blue?” he repeated. Broad shoulders peeked out over the newspaper he was holding.

      Why is your face blue? Holly heard the individual words but couldn’t put them together to understand them as a question. She could hardly get over the fact that there was a man in the apartment, let alone make sense of the sounds coming from his mouth.

      She checked the keys in her hand. Perhaps she was somehow in the wrong place.

      And then she saw.

      Her hands were blue. Cobalt Blue Two Eleven, to be exact. She’d know that color anywhere. It was one of her favorites.

      It suddenly made sense. Just a few minutes ago she’d ducked out of the rain and under the front awning of the building to rifle through her duffel bag for the piece of paper that confirmed the address. The duffel held paint tubes and brushes, paperwork, clothes and heaven knew what else. The cap must have come off her Cobalt Two Eleven.

      And she must have touched her face with paint-covered hands.

      “What are you doing here?” Holly asked the shirtless man.

      “This apartment belongs to my company.”

      He lowered his newspaper, folded it matter-of-factly and laid it beside him. Giving Holly a full view of his long, lean torso that led down to the plaid pajama bottoms covering the lower half of his body.

      “What is it that you are doing here?”

      The lump that had balled in Holly’s throat delayed her response. She hadn’t seen a half-naked man in a very long time. And she hadn’t seen a man who looked like he did while he was busy being half-naked in...well, possibly ever.

      “I’m staying here,” she answered.

      It had been a grueling journey, and the last thing she’d expected was to have to reckon with someone once she got here.

      She blinked her eyes hard to pull herself together and tried not to panic. “I was told I could use this apartment.”

      “That must have been a mistake.”

      Mistake? What was this man talking about?

      “I’ve just arrived from Florida. My brother, Vince, works in the Miami office of Benton Worldwide Properties. This is one of the apartments they keep for visitors to New York.”

      “That is correct.”

      “Vince arranged for me to stay here. He confirmed it last week. And he called again yesterday to Benton Boston headquarters.”

      “I am Ethan Benton, Vice President of Benton Worldwide. As you can see from my...” he gestured down his chest “...state of undress, I am staying here at the moment.”

      “Okay, well, I’m Holly Motta and I was counting on using this apartment. See?” She shook the blue-painted keys. “The Boston office left the keys in my name with the doorman downstairs.”

      “I apologize for the mistake. I have just arrived tonight myself. In the morning I will look into who is responsible for this egregious error and have their head lopped off.”

      The left corner of his mouth hitched up a bit.

      Ethan Benton and his bare chest sat on a black leather sofa. Matching armchairs faced opposite, separated by a modern glass coffee table. The furnishings were spare. Two large framed photos were the only adornments on the wall. Both black and white, one was of a potted orchid and the other a maple tree.

      Bland as a plain piece of toast. A typical corporate apartment, Holly guessed, having never been in one before. Elegant, yet all business. With no personal touches.

      It was hardly the type of place where a beautiful shirtless man should be reading a newspaper. Not at all the kind of place where one brown curl of hair would fall in front of that man’s forehead as if it were no big deal. As if that wasn’t the most charming thing that a wet and exhausted young woman from Fort Pierce, Florida could imagine.

      “Again, so sorry for the miscommunication,” said the man that curl belonged to, “but you are going to have to leave. I will have the doorman hail you a taxi.”

      “Not so fast.”

      Holly snapped out of her fascination with his hair. She stomped over to one of the chairs opposite the sofa. Keeping her blue hands in the air, so as not to get paint anywhere, she lowered herself down.

      “If your corporate office didn’t have you scheduled to stay here, maybe it’s you who should leave.”

      The corner of his mouth ticked up again—which was either cute or annoying. Holly wasn’t sure yet.

      “Obviously I am not going to leave my company’s apartment.”

      Holly couldn’t believe this was happening. This morning she had taken a bus from Fort Pierce to West Palm Beach airport. Then her flight to Newark, New Jersey had been delayed. When it had finally landed she’d taken another bus to the Port Authority terminal in Manhattan. It had been raining and dark by then, and there had hardly been a taxi to be had. She’d got drenched flagging one down. The cab brought her to this address on the Upper East Side.

      And now—same as always, just when she was trying to do something for herself—someone else’s need was somehow one-upping hers.

      “What am I supposed to do?”

      “I would suggest you go to a hotel.”

      Hotels in New York were expensive. Holly had been saving money for months to make a go of it when she got here. She couldn’t use up any of her funds on a hotel stay.

      “I can’t afford it.”

      Ethan fixed a strangely searching stare on her.

      While he assessed her Holly’s eyes followed his long СКАЧАТЬ