Stefanie London - The Fling

My frustration builds as I walk the short block to my apartment. Francis can get on her high horse about the way I live my life, but I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that’s not being some money-chasing egomaniac like my mother, a woman who was only ever capable of giving a shit about herself.

I enter my apartment building, trying to shrug off the bad memories along with my coat. A night without the distraction of filing emails seems like a daunting task. Quiet moments are the worst. Maybe that’s another reason working 24/7 appeals to me—easier to avoid the stuff I don’t want to deal with.

“Mr. Lewis.” The concierge waves me over as I enter. The poor man looks like he’s run through a tornado—his tie is skewed, his hair mussed. “We’ve had some issues with the elevators today, but they’re working now. Just wanted to let you know in case they take a bit longer than normal while we get everyone up to their apartments.”

I nod and continue on. I don’t know my neighbours. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you who lived next door. I’m not one of those people who feels the need for community connection. Nor do I want to attend the various social events the building puts on for its residents. Frankly, if I had to stand around making small talk with people I don’t know or care about, then I’d rather be doing it where I might find an investor for my business.

When the elevator arrives, it’s crammed. So, I wait for the next one. It’s not like I’ve got to rush upstairs for anything, after all. My cupboards are spartan, and my fridge is worse. The only thing ingestible in the whole place is the protein powder I take after my morning workout and a bottle of cognac my brother gave me for Christmas.

Not exactly the ingredients for an enticing dinner.

When I reach my floor, I step into the hallway and approach my apartment with an increasing sense of dread. This is ridiculous. It’s the same damn place I come home to every night. But now it’s ominous, like something I’ve built up to mammoth proportions. A representation of how little my life contains.

“Hello?”

A voice startles me and I turn, my gaze swinging across the empty hallway. There’s not a soul around. Great. Now on top of this unwanted and unappreciated trip down “existential crisis” lane, I’m losing my mind, too. Francis is going to pay for this tomorrow.

“Is someone there?” A loud thump draws my eyes to the service stairwell. “Hello? I need help.”

The voice is definitely female, but I don’t recognise it. I pull on the door. It’s locked. That’s when I notice an electronic keypad flashing: Error. Enter code.

“The door is locked,” I say.

“No shit,” the voice snaps. “Why else would I be in here?”

“Self-reflection?” The comeback slips out before I can think better of it.

“You’re a regular smartass, aren’t you?”

I’m tempted to leave the woman in the stairwell. It’s not my problem and I’ve had enough abuse for one day. But the second I start to walk away, my conscience kicks in and I almost growl in frustration. I can’t leave a person stranded.

“Hello?” she tries again.

“I’m still here.”

“Look, buddy. I’ve had the day from hell and all I want is to get into my apartment so I can faceplant in a tub of ice cream and eat my emotions. Think you can help me out?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Try really hard.”

Shaking my head, I bend down to look more closely at the keypad. It has a thin layer of plastic covering it and I notice some dust and paint shavings on the floor. Then everything clicks into place—I’d bet my last ten bucks they installed these things today and blew a fuse while testing them out. That probably tripped the security system and shut the elevators down.

Which could mean... I punch 1234 into the electronic pad and the screen flashes once, twice and then displays the word: open . Yep, they haven’t set up the passcodes yet.

I yank the door open. For a moment, my brain stutters like a lawnmower failing to start. The woman in the stairwell looks like she’s stepped out of my wildest, dirtiest fantasies—endless legs in fishnet stockings, waist-length hair that’s so pale it’s almost white, and a leather miniskirt and lace-up boots. Not to mention the black eyeliner that rims her eyes, making the silvery-blue irises seem otherworldly.

Looking at her is like being shocked with jumper cables.

I have definitely not seen her around before. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how long it’s been since I was with someone. Every woman I’ve dated has been a strategic decision, because I don’t waste time with short-term flings and one-night stands. I only do what gets me closer to my goals—and casual sex doesn’t.

But work has taken over everything. My personal life is a husk and...well, I’ve been flying solo in the bedroom for a while. My sex life is a wasteland. A ghost town. And this is the first sign of life I’ve felt in over a year. Sensation rockets through me, blanking out the worries that usually clog my mind and filling me with a strong, pleasurable hum. Maybe denying myself for so long wasn’t a smart move—because I’m feeling like a man crawling through the desert, with water shimmering on the horizon.

I hold the door open for her, tamping down the uncharacteristic surge of attraction. “You’re welcome,” I quip.

“I didn’t say thank you,” she replies, a wicked curve pulling at her lips. “Yet.”

I DUST MYSELF off and roll my shoulders back, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. These boots were not made for climbing four flights of stairs. Mr. Suit is watching my every move like his life depends on it—though I don’t mind. He’s gorgeous. If I had to make a quick guess I’d say mid-thirties, a lawyer/banker/insert mind-numbing profession here. But his suit fits like a dream, nipping in a trim waist and accenting broad shoulders. He might be desk-bound, but he works out. His eyes are the colour of the sky and his hair has an attractive reddish sheen to it, with warm-toned stubble on his sharp jaw to match.

Who would have known I’d be hot for a ginger?

“Were you stuck in there long?” He steps back so I can escape the concrete column of doom.

“How long is too long without phone reception? I was starting to worry I’d have to forage for food.” I cock my head. “Why don’t I know you? Do you live on this floor?”

He nods. “405.”

“We’re neighbours, then. I’m in 406.” I have a sudden urge to do something bold—to shake off the critical voice that’s been nagging me ever since I packed my bags and flew home to Melbourne. Each night has been an exercise in distraction—Netflix binges until I fall asleep, trying not to wish the weeks away so I can get on with my next adventure. Being home makes me antsy.

But tonight just got a whole lot more interesting.

“Want to come in for a drink?” I tilt my head, studying my smart-mouthed rescuer. The guy looks serious, like he’s got a gold medal in frowning. But I sense something beneath the surface—a simmering heat, like he’s stripping me back. I’ve had a lot of guys look at me over the years...but nothing like this.

It’s like I’m something precious behind glass.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” he asks. There’s a slight crinkle to the edge of his eyes—like a delightful chink in his armour. “With liquor.”

“It only seems fair. After all, if you hadn’t come along, the poor concierge guy might have found a pile of bones at the top of the stairs. It would have traumatised him for life.” I nod, a mock sincere expression on my face. “You’re basically a national hero.”