That was why I took classes to be a makeup artist and was close to completing my course as a skin technician. I liked doing facials the best. It was the quiet. It wasn’t only relaxing to the client but also me. And I liked the bright but tranquil look my test subjects gave me when I was done. Not only was I making their skin look great, I was making them feel good. And that was cool.

But this wasn’t my life’s dream. In fact, I didn’t have a life’s dream. I’d learned that living a dream, finding a dream or having a dream find me was not in my future and I’d learned this early.

That said, I was ambitious.

I didn’t want to rule the world.

I wanted to own my own spa.

A good one that was all about relaxation, pampering and beautification in a peaceful, safe, gorgeous setting. Maybe up in the mountains somewhere. It would look good. It would smell good. And it would be a treat for anyone who opened the doors and walked in.

Including me.

So I had a plan. Nails, makeup and facials down (nearly), building up a clientele as I went along and finding a salon or spa that would rent me space or take me on as an employee in the meantime. Then move onto the whopper deluxe, massage therapy. I was doing all this while saving to open my own place. Living frugal. Being smart. Getting educated. Building a clientele and providing excellent service to keep them so whenever I moved and when I settled, they’d follow me.

Then be my own boss and that boss was the boss of indulgence.

How freaking awesome would that be?

Perfect. With my life, facing the rest of it filled with offering tranquility and indulgence was perfect for me.

This was on my mind instead of what I didn’t want to be on my mind as I found a spot somewhat close to the front doors to the high-rise complex. It took me three attempts before I did a terrible job at parallel parking my car. It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there long. I got out, fed a nickel into the meter which gave me a nanosecond (not really) but enough time to do what I needed to do.

Then I dashed into the building and went to the doorman’s desk.

When we were there on Saturday, there was no doorman on duty which meant day and evening hours. But the door had been locked (as it now wasn’t) and we’d had to buzz up. However, I’d seen the desk so I’d hoped it had someone behind it sometime and luckily I was right.

I smiled at him and he smiled at me as I walked up to him.

Then I stopped at the desk, put the taped down, bubble wrap envelope on it and asked, “Can I leave that and you’ll give it to Knight, I think his last name is Sebring, in apartment 15A?”

His brows went up. “Mr. Sebring? Unit 15A? Sure,” he replied. “But you want, I can call up. See if he’s here.”

His hand was drifting to the phone so I lifted mine swiftly and shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m in a rush and he needs that but I have to dash. Can you just make sure he gets it?”

He nodded again. “Sure.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

He smiled back.

I skedaddled.

Right, that down, point made, note written, Thanks, Knight. That’s very kind and generous but I can’t accept. Be well, Anya.

And that was it. The end.

The end.

I drove home thinking of the end of Knight Sebring at the same time wishing, with what I knew was sheer lunacy and I didn’t get it at all, was that it was the beginning.

* * *

The next night, it was late and I was coming home from class thinking about my weekend. Four clients on Saturday including Sandrine who I knew would stay through the client after her and bitch about Nick (who still hadn’t called, not surprisingly to anyone but Sandrine) and stay even after that trying to convince me to go out with her to the clubs that evening in search of him.

Because this wasn’t an eventuality but a certainty, Viv and I had already formed a plan of attack. Viv was making her world famous (not really but it should be) chicken, lemon and asparagus risotto. I was bringing a bottle of wine, my facial gear and my copy of Thor. We were going to eat, I was going to give Vivica and Sandrine, if she was smart enough to bag on the Nick hunt, a facial then we were going to perv on Chris Hemsworth.

The perfect evening.

Don’t get me wrong, there was a time when I liked to go out mostly because I liked music but I loved dancing. And even though I didn’t have the greatest clothes, I chose selectively, liked what I chose and they suited me. I liked to get all dressed up, made up, hair out to there, heels even higher, go out, have a few drinks, loosen up, flirt a little, maybe get asked out on a date but especially, dance.

But now I was twenty-seven, not twenty-two (or three or four) and this happening every weekend with a wild party thrown in here and there was wearing. I was never out to be part of the scene. And I wasn’t on the hunt for a man. I dated. A couple of times I dated a guy for a while before I broke it off. So I was open to meeting men and exploring things. But I hadn’t found anyone who struck me. I wasn’t desperate. If it happened, it happened. If it didn’t, I could take care of myself. But if it happened, it had to be right.

“Anya?”

I knew that smooth, deep voice like I’d heard it every day hundreds of times a day since birth. So I stopped mid-punching in of new security code and woodenly twisted to see Knight Sebring striding up the steps of my apartment building toward me.

Okay, um…

Crap!

I pulled it together and greeted, “Hey,” then added, “What are you doing here?”

I didn’t need to ask. I was taking in his face, his well-cut, dark suit, his shirt that was the color of moss and it suited him, even with blue eyes, to perfection and the fact that he seemed mildly annoyed. But I didn’t miss the glossy black box he held in one long-fingered hand.

He made it to me and held up the box. “Take it,” he ordered, no greeting, no smile, nothing but those two words.

I looked down at the box then up to his eyes.

“Knight, I can’t,” I said softly.

His head tipped slightly to the side and his brows drew together as he asked, “Why the fuck not?”

“Because I looked it up at work and I know it costs nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars.”

“So?” he returned instantly.

I stared at him.

Then I repeated his, “So?”

“Yeah, babe. So?”

I turned fully to him. “So, I don’t know you.”

“So?”

“So?” I again repeated his repeat.

“Jesus, fuck, babe,” he jerked the box to me sounding impatient, “got shit to do. Take it.”

“Knight, I can’t,” I reiterated.

“Anya, babe,” he leaned in and reiterated back with some scary emphasis, “why the fuck not?”

I stared into his eyes. He was impatient. He was annoyed. I did not know this man and he was trying to give me a nearly one thousand dollar phone like it was nothing.

“Why are you pressing this phone on me?” I asked quietly and he leaned back.

“Told you in the note, you read?” he asked, this sarcasm not amusing but I didn’t call him on that. I nodded. “Then you know, woman needs a functioning phone.”

“I’m saving,” I shared. “I’ll have one in a couple of weeks.”

His eyes held mine.

Then he whispered, “Saving?”

Crap. Crap!

I ignored that and all it exposed and assured him, “Anyway, I’m fine. Good. Or I will be on the phone front in a couple of weeks.”

He didn’t say anything for a few beats then, softly, he ordered, “Anya, take the phone.”

“Knight –”

“Take the phone.”

“I don’t –”

“Babe, take the fucking phone.”

“Did you beat up Steve?”

I blurted that and I didn’t know why. If he didn’t, it was a rude thing to assume. If he did, I didn’t want to know.

But he didn’t hesitate to reply, “No.”

I felt relief sweep through me.

“But I sent the boys who did,” he finished.

My entire body got tight but I forced through stiff lips my, “What?”

“Though,” he amended, “it wasn’t me taking shots at that motherfucker only because I had other shit to do.”

I said nothing and stared.

Knight got more impatient. “Anya, got shit to do now too. Take the fuckin’ phone.”

“Why’d you have boys beat up Steve?” I asked and again didn’t know why. I didn’t want to know. But I asked anyway and he answered.

“Babe, your building, a fire hazard. One flight of steps for a building that size? Fuck no,” he bit out, now not sounding impatient but pissed. “A fire could cut off from your escape route, you only got one. And the door open for any motherfucker to walk through? They see you, trail you, you’re fucked. Totally. Not only because you only got one set of stairs, and it’s the one furthest away from the front door, but also, once you get up to your hall, it’s dark and your door’s got a lock, one boot to it, it’ll pop right open. That’s bullshit. Your rent isn’t steep but it isn’t shit either. You pay for a workin’ fuckin’ elevator and a secured door. I sent my boys to have a word. The words your landlord returned they didn’t like much. They gave me a call, I gave them the go-ahead, you got a secured door, lighting and a fucking lock that might give you enough time to at least dial 911 before some motherfucker is on you.”

Okay, that explained that.

At the same time it absolutely did not.

“Why?” I whispered.

“What?” Knight didn’t whisper.

“Why? Why did you take that trouble or, I mean, send boys to do it? You barely know me.”