My realtor, Hilary, was only too happy to oblige me with a lightning round of property shopping in the city yesterday, and the second place we visited was a perfect fit.

It’s a penthouse unit in Midtown, far enough away from my place on the Upper East Side to offer a clean slate.

Hilary rushed the paperwork through—anything is possible with the right incentive—and even though I won’t be able to sign the final documents until Friday, my new move-in day is today.

I’m having her tag everything in the old penthouse for sale, except my personal items. There’s a team of people working on packing up my clothes and books and other miscellaneous things right now.

After I shook hands with Hilary, I went down to a furniture store owned by a friend in Chelsea and spent the rest of the evening choosing all new furniture—entire rooms worth of chairs, sofas, decorations, a new bed for the master bedroom, bookshelves, everything. He called in several of his people to work overtime having most of it collected for this morning, when I sent a moving truck to pick it all up at once.

This new place is going to be perfect.

My heart pounds as I climb out of the Bentley. The moving truck is already pulled up in front of the new building. I’m normally not one to micromanage the staff, but this day is going to go off without a hitch.

One of the guys from the moving company—the embroidered name on his shirt reads Ricky—detaches from the little knot of men standing near the curb and approaches, his hand out for a shake.

“Mr. Kingsley?” His accent is strong, and he wears a wide smile.

“In the flesh.”

“Great to meet you, sir. I’m Ricky, and this is my crew. We’ll have your things up to your place in no time. The penthouse, right?”

“That’s right.”

He cranes his neck to look up at the building and lets out a low whistle. “You must be big-time.”

“You could say that.”

Normally, I wouldn’t spend time on chatting with some nobody from a moving company, but there’s a humming in my veins today that’s wiping away some of the black fog from the weekend. Electricity arcs over my skin. I can see how every single one of these pieces is going to fit into the new place.

This time, I’m going to get it right.

Ricky claps his hands together. “Well, enough with the small talk. Let’s get you moved in.”

“Sounds great.”

I move around to the back of the truck. When two of Ricky’s guys slide the door open, I can’t help but smile. This stack of furniture is about to become my new domain, and it feels great.

They start unloading a few of the pieces in back, shooting me questions every so often about which room this chair is for, where the bed is going to go. The penthouse is spacious enough that moving things around inside shouldn’t be an issue, but Ricky has moving down to a science, so he doesn’t want to waste time rearranging too much once it’s up there.

Good man.

Things are migrating onto the sidewalk when Ricky nods at me from the top of the ramp leading down from the truck bed. “Excuse us, Mr. Kingsley. We’re going to need to put a sofa right where you’re standing. Was this for the master bedroom or the living room?”

“The living room,” I say as I step up onto the curb, backing up a little bit to get clear of the other furniture. “The leather one is for the living area of the master bedroom.”

“Right,” Ricky says, his muscles flexing as he carries the sofa down the ramp. It’s not going to be long until they’re taking things in through the lobby. This building has a freight elevator in back, which is mighty convenient.

I turn toward the front entrance to see how much foot traffic we might be blocking—not that I care—and that’s when I see her.

My mouth goes dry, and I can feel the adrenaline spiking through my veins.

There, standing on the sidewalk, looking at me, is Carolyn Banks, looking like a vision in a flowing dress, her lips red and vibrant, her hair spilling down over her back.

Her dark eyes are huge and wide, and her mouth is half open.

At first, my brain can’t make the connection, and when it does, it’s like I’m being swept under by a tidal wave.

This is Carolyn’s building.

Her expression confirms it. She wouldn’t care at all if she were leaving a friend’s place. She wouldn’t be frozen on the sidewalk if she never had to come back here.

The wave of sheer excitement that first hit me fades beneath a jolt of pain.

Oh, shit.

I can’t silence the drumbeat in my mind.

Of all the apartments in New York City. Of all the buildings I could have chosen to move into. And this one is hers.

Heat crackles between us, even from 20 feet away.

Is this a cruel trick from the universe or a neon sign blinking BE WITH HER over and over in the night?

She straightens her back, and her lips press together into a thin line. Then she tears her eyes away from mine, turns around so gracefully it hurts to watch, and moves down the sidewalk, her steps measured. She’s not rushing. She’s the queen of everything around her.

Steel races up my spine. Enough with the awkwardness. If I can’t handle running into Carolyn Banks in the elevator now and then, who the hell am I?

At least now I’ll have an excuse for thinking about her ceaselessly, every second that I’m awake. She’ll be close.

She might not want me to be here, but I’m done backing down. I’m done hiding.

I’m moving into this building, come hell or high water.