It almost makes me laugh. Lucky Irish. It’s even worse than Noah Steel.
By the time I get back to my apartment I’ve almost succeeded in psyching myself up for a night of dirty deeds
done dirt cheap with no emotion in volved whatsoever. If worse comes to worst I’ll close my eyes and pretend
Lucky Irish is just as beautiful as the enchanting girl in the photo.
My apartment lights turn on as soon as I walk in. Low back-lighting that gives the place a luxurious ambiance.
The steel-framed glass wall that looks out over Fifth Avenue shows off the late afternoon city skyline, my spacious
outdoor roof garden and the treetops of Central Park.
I bought this apartment when things began to go stratospheric for us, a few years ago now. I paid twenty-five
million for it. It’s now worth forty.
I’m probably the most frugal of all four of us, but real estate is one thing I do spend money on. Actually, I
don’t skimp on cars or boats either. I have seven houses and I use all of them.
This penthouse is where I spend most of my time, but I also have a saltbox “cottage” in Southampton, a beach
bungalow in the Bahamas, a waterfront villa on Lake Como, a small ranch with a house on the water in Austin, a
mansion in the Hollywood Hills, and a beach house on the North Shore of Oahu. All the houses have several
garages with a collection of cars, boats, jet skis and motorcycles that fit the driving and sailing conditions of the
places they’re in and are fun to take for joyrides.
New York City is in my veins and I’ve lived here my entire life. But if I don’t get out of the city every now
and then I feel like my sanity is starting to crack.
It was actually my idea to offer employees of Invested Enterprises a “creative” week each month. One week
out of four, people can travel on the company. This way, we’re encouraging our staff to come up with the kinds of
new, innovative ideas you tend to get when you’re visiting places you’ve always wanted to see and meeting people
who challenge your own personal status quo.
We organize meetings with key people when we can, but not always. Sometimes they’re free to just explore.
It’s paid off. Almost forty percent of our new clients have been discovered and wooed that way. We’re also
the most sought-after company to work for in New York City, partly because of that one perk—even though we
offer a lot of perks.
I work a lot, but I also do my best to use all my houses as much as I can on these weeks away. All my
properties are very different. Each of them has such a different architectural style, and the backdrops and the
culture of the places have so many different things to offer, they refresh me in new ways each time I visit.
But it’s the same old story. I travel alone. If I take a woman to any one of my houses—including this one, and
especially this one—she’s begging me to put a ring on her finger within the hour. They get needy and desperate
and want more than I ever want to give them.
And my problem is, I do want to give. I want to fucking drown in how in love I am for the one perfect girl I
can never, ever find.
Which brings me back to my plans for the evening. To forget about my spiritual cravings and focus instead on
my feral animal cravings.
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and knock back the whole thing. Then I go out to my pool, strip down
and dive in. No one can see me up here. The privacy is a big part of why this apartment was so pricey, but it’s
worth it. As a Maddox, we tend to get a certain amount of attention. Not something I aspire to at all. None of us do,
exc ept maybe Colton. He’s the only one of us who really enjoys the publicity.
I do fifty laps. Then I grab a towel and go inside to take a long shower. None of it takes the edge off.
I put on jeans, a nice shirt and my leather jacket. I still have an hour. Since it’s only a few blocks to the
restaurant, I decide to walk. Maybe a stroll down Fifth Avenue will do me good.
It’s Friday evening and everything’s busy. There’s a festive spark in the air and I feel that bubble of glittering
anticipation kick up my heartbeat. I’m trying hard not to think about how beautiful Lucky Irish’s photo was. Or to
get my hopes up. Or to fixate on the fact that she can’t actually look like that.
Without even thinking about it, as I walk past Tiffany’s, I go inside. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’m
looking for. But then I see it. Our mother used to wear a diamond tennis bracelet. All the time. She even sl ept in it.
Looking back on it and knowing what I now know about diamonds, my father would have easily paid several
million dollars for that bracelet. Its jewels sparkled even in the dark.
It’s a vague memory but I remember asking her once—I was maybe six or seven years old at the time—if
she’d ever taken it off. She smiled and touched my hair. My mother used to love my hair. It was blond when I was
young. Angel’s curls, she used to call it. I never take it off, darling, she told me, because it’s my magic bracelet. It
ke eps me safe and it makes me happy. My mother had grown up poor and married my father when she was very
young. I never really thought about the details of her past when I was a kid but I remember being charmed at the
time by the thought of her magic bracelet.
She was buried with the bracelet still on. The one I’m looking at now is made of sapphires. They’re exactly
the same color as Lucky Irish’s eyes. Again, I remind myself that the color was probably photoshopped in.
I don’t know why I do it. “I’ll take it,” I tell the woman behind the counter.
“Of course, sir.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “Will that be cash or card?” I slide my black credit card across the
glass. A very swish team of personnel have the card swiped and the bracelet wrapped into its blue box with a white
ribbon before I can change my mind.
I slide the wrapped box into my jacket pocket. “Thank you.” I leave the store not actually knowing how much
money I just spent. I’m a fucking
CFO, I always know how much money I’ve spent.
Maybe I’m going crazy. This monumental dry spell is messing with my head.
Of course I’m not going to give it to her. She’s a stranger. I just... want to have it in my pocket. In case.
In case of what, you asshole? You just can’t let it go, can you? You refuse to stop hoping that this girl will be
The One. It’s always your fatal mistake. Hoping too hard.
Anyway. It’s just off dusk. I get to the restaurant ten minutes early. It’s a new place I haven’t been to before. It
has brick walls, wooden beams, a few leather couches and a lot of lamps. I guess it is romantic. It’s tastefully
decorated. Raised booths with tables line the walls and give a certain amount of privacy to each one. There’s a
hotel desk at one end of the dining room and gold-plated elevator doors. Colton mentioned there’s a new five- star
hotel upstairs.
The maître d’ approaches me. “Table for one, sir?” “Two. I’m not sure if I have a reservation or not. My name
is Noah M— uh, Steel. Noah Steel.” Fucking Colton. Then again, I’m glad. If Lucky Irish and I don’t hit it off, she
has no way of finding out who I am.
It doesn’t matter if you hit it off or not. You made a decision. You’re not looking for love. All you’re looking
for is someone compatible enough to have a good time with for one night and one night only. It’s time to let off
some much-needed steam, Noah Steel. This is your opportunity. Make the most of it.
“Right this way, Mr. Steel. You’ve got the best table in the house.” I follow him to the front table, which is up
three stairs in its own private booth but also next to the window with a view of the door. A small table lamp is on,
casting a golden glow.
He sets the menus on the table. “I’ll show Ms. Irish to her seat as soon as she arrives. Our Lucky in Love
customers have really been hitting it off. I hope you enjoy your night, Mr. Ma—uh, Mr. Steel.”
I’m not exactly thrilled that the dating app makes the reservation. And it’s obvious this guy recognizes me,
which isn’t unusual in this neighborhood. I’ve been on the cover of Forbes twice and our company gets written up
all the time. I can only hope Lucky Irish travels in different circles. If you say so, buddy. “Thanks.”
Once he’s gone I check my watch. 7:05. A waitress brings two glasses of water. “Can I get you a drink, Mr.
Steel?”
“We’d like a bottle of Moët on ice.” Might as well get the ball rolling. She winks at me. “Of course. Coming
right up.” She leaves and I have nothing left to do but wait, checking my watch every thirty seconds.
What if she doesn’t show up? Is she nervous? Scared? Is she okay? A flash of golden blond glides past the
window below me. It’s her. She’s wearing a blue dress that’s one shade lighter than Lucky Irish’s eyes in the
photo.
And the sapphires in my pocket. She stands in the doorway for a few seconds, like she’s thinking twice about
coming in.
Even from this distance, I can see that the photo hardly did her justice. She’s cute but also gorgeous. Her eyes
are blue even from across the room. The bright colors of her hair, her dress and the pink bag she’s carrying are
eye-catching on their own, but it’s her face that has me riveted.
I’m quite literally starstruck. My mouth feels parched. And my heart aches as though I’ve been missing
something monumental and here it suddenly fucking is.
Holy fuck. She’s so beautiful. The maître d’ approaches her and she introduces herself. He points toward our
booth and they both glance in my direction. At that moment, her eyes meet mine.