Cara Lockwood - Look At Me

The neighboring building was big enough for three condos, but as far as she knew, the entire building had been empty since she’d moved in eight months ago. There’d been construction crews coming and going, and the rumor from her downstairs neighbor—a Realtor—was that the entire building was being converted into one massive home: no doubt for one very rich couple or a very rich family of ten, since the three-story brownstone could easily hold ten bedrooms and five bathrooms. From her floor, she could see straight into the top floor of the building, where she saw a spacious living room with dark-stained pine floors and had a full view of the expansive rooftop deck: covered in wood, complete with a built-in fire pit and benches. Last week, gardeners had arrived with potted plants, and so the entire deck was in bloom with white and yellow flowers.

Now she studied the movers. None of them looked up. Chloe had gotten used to not being seen from her vantage point. People just didn’t glance up beyond the second floor of her building. Chloe sank into the little bench at her bay window, sipping her soda and watching the men work. Because it was so hot, Chloe could only bear to wear a tank top with thin straps and a pair of old gym shorts. She hadn’t bothered putting on makeup, because she worked from home and the humidity would just melt it off anyway. She’d swept her dark, nearly black hair up in a hastily made ponytail, but didn’t care. She doubted the movers would be looking up. She felt invisible on her perch. She took another sip, watching the burly workers below as they waited to unload their cargo. They seemed not able to get in.

Then a brand-new Maserati roared up to the back of the building, steered by a man in his early 30s. He parked in the alley, not caring about a proper parking space. She guessed a man with a Maserati could afford a parking ticket. He popped out of the driver’s seat, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Hang on. Hello. Tall, built like a linebacker, with muscles she could see from where she sat. What was he—a boxer? A fitness trainer? No trainer she knew could afford a Maserati.

He ran a hand through a thick head of dirty-blond hair as he dropped his phone in his pocket. He instantly started directing the movers.

She glanced at his flat stomach hugged by his skintight shirt and thought: Bet he’s gay. She didn’t know any straight guys who worked that hard on their abs. And she knew next to no rich men who did. After all, why bother, when their wallets could speak for themselves?

But...if he is straight...mmm, mama . He had just the right amount of blond goatee covering his chin. She saw no ring on his left hand. Then he grabbed keys from his pocket and opened the back door. Could he be...the new neighbor? He certainly acted like it. And the Maserati fit the profile of someone who’d just bought a whole building for himself.

She willed him to look up, to see her, but he didn’t. Not that he would.

No one bothers to see me up here. The benefits of being invisible meant that she could spy with abandon.

The new neighbor was gorgeous, with a capital G . And had more money than God if he was going to live in that building all by himself. Lincoln Park real estate was anything but cheap. Just ask Chance the Rapper, who lived two streets over. Not that money alone really spoke to Chloe. Sure, she wouldn’t mind having more of it, but her Korean dad and Irish mom raised her with Midwestern values. They told her to work hard, keep her head down and not be flashy.

A strand of her nearly black hair fell into her face. She blew it off her sticky forehead and fumbled with her tank-top spaghetti strap that kept falling off her shoulder. She watched as the new neighbor directed the movers, as they unloaded the truck—a big gray sectional coming first, as they maneuvered it into the open door across the way.

At least I’m not moving a couch wearing a jumpsuit in this heat , she thought, fanning herself and taking a sip of her now-lukewarm soda.

A few minutes later she saw them maneuver the same couch into the third-floor living room. She realized then she could see the entire living room, the fireplace, a bit of the kitchen and even, when the bedroom door was open, a little of that as well. And now the shades were up and she saw movers walking about the space below. She watched the new neighbor in the alley pick up a few boxes himself, his biceps rippling beneath the weight. What kind of billionaire lifts his own boxes ? Now Chloe’s curiosity was piqued. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe that wall of muscle was the billionaire’s personal assistant? Yet something told her no. It was the way he carried himself. This man was in charge, and not just of the move.

The intriguing man disappeared into the staircase. Chloe’s phone dinged then, an incoming message, an email alert. She absently went to get her phone, and scrolled through her messages. Spam, actually. She dismissed it and returned to the window, noticing that the mystery neighbor popped up at the top floor and walked the boxes into the living room. Doesn’t hurt to watch, does it? Not that they’ll see me anyway.

He hadn’t noticed her, and yet she was close enough to see his forehead start to glisten a little with sweat. For once, she was glad of her invisibility cloak. Now she could see his face a bit better as he stood at the window, looking down. He took off his sunglasses and wiped his forehead, and she could see his eyes weren’t brown. Blue, maybe? Or green? Hard to tell. He swiped at the bead of sweat on his temple.

Wish I could wipe that off...with my tongue , she found herself thinking, and then giggled to herself at the ludicrous idea as she clutched her phone in her sweaty palm. Where did that come from? It had to be because she was newly single, she figured. Suddenly, everybody was a possibility. As she finished off her can of soda, she watched the new neighbor dump a box in the living room and then run an arm across his own sweaty brow. Then, to her utter surprise, he whipped off his tee.

Oh...my. Hello there, sexy. She hadn’t seen such an amazing chest before except on the giant posters of her gym. He had abs, yes, and that amazing little vee stretching down into his low-slung khakis. His well-defined pecs and chiseled arms seemed like they should be wielding a hammer.

She also noticed this bad boy had tattoos. A big one across his right arm and shoulder. What was it? She couldn’t make it out. She pulled up her phone’s camera and then zoomed in, trying to get a better look. Was the tattoo part of a wing? She wasn’t sure.

Okay, what bazillionaire lifted his own boxes and had tattoos? Chloe shook her head. The new neighbor was all kinds of mystery rolled into some serious eye candy. He patted his face with his own shirt, and Chloe felt like she’d suddenly been taken out of time. Everything she watched seemed to be on a slow-motion reel, even as her sexy new neighbor grabbed a bottle of water and took a deep swig. She watched his Adam’s apple bob and suddenly wished he’d dump the whole bottle on his head.

What’s wrong with you? This isn’t a male revue, for goodness’ sake. Chloe tried to mentally shake herself, but she still sat at the window anyway, transfixed. She clutched the phone in her hand. Should she take a picture? She was tempted. Then the dazzling neighbor moved away from the window and out of sight.

Dammit. Where did the bad boy with the abs go?

She pushed forward, trying to see, and her spaghetti strap slipped again from her shoulder. She wore no bra, since it was too hot for one in her opinion, and the fabric of her shirt slung dangerously low, but she didn’t pay it any mind. She was too focused on getting one more glimpse of her Nordic god neighbor.