THE 32nd floor of the office building was completely dark as Maisie Dobson pushed the cleaning trolley down the corridor, the squeal of the wheels the only sound in the eerie building. After six months of cleaning there, she should have been used to it, but it still scared her a little. Although there were a dozen cleaners in the building, each one worked on a separate floor, with all the offices quiet and dark, and the lights of Manhattan filtering through the windows. It was two in the morning and she was exhausted. She had a violin lesson at nine, and she was afraid she'd fall asleep. That had always been her dream: music school, not being a cleaner. But to achieve the latter, she needed the former, and she didn't care. She was used to working hard to get what she wanted. She stopped when she saw a light in an office at the end of the hallway. Someone had left the light on, she thought. And yet, she felt a certain unease. At eleven o'clock, when the cleaning crew arrived, the Manhattan skyscraper was always completely dark. Maisie nervously continued pushing the trolley, the squeaking wheels making a loud noise in the quiet hallway. "Don't be such a coward," she scolded herself. "You have nothing to fear. It's just a light on, nothing more. He stopped the cart in front of the door and then, taking a breath, poked his head into the office… and saw a man. Maisie froze. He wasn't your typical fat executive who'd stayed to work a few extra hours. No, this man was… her mind began to spin, trying to find the words to describe him. He was certainly gorgeous. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and his eyebrows were arched. He had a twisted, annoyed expression on his face as he stared at the half-empty glass of whiskey dangling from his long fingers. He wasn't wearing a tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a tanned torso between the folds. He exuded charisma and power, so much so that Maisie had taken a step forward without realizing it. Then he looked up and a pair of piercing blue eyes pinned her to the ground. "Wow, hello," he murmured, flashing a crooked smile. His voice was low, husky, with a hint of an accent. "How are you on this pleasant evening?" Maisie would have been alarmed, even scared, but at that moment she saw a flash of distress in his eyes, in the hard lines of his face. "I'm fine," he replied, looking at the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the desk. "But I think the question is, how are you?" The man tilted his head to one side, the glass about to slip from his fingers. –How am I? That's a good question. Yes, a very good question. –Oh, really? The intensity of her distress made Maisie's heart leap. She'd always had so much love to give, and so few people to give it to. Her brother, Max, had been the main recipient, but now she was independent and wanted to live her life. And that was good. Of course it was. She had to tell herself that every day. "Yes, it is," the man replied, sitting up a little. "Because it should be fine, right? It should be great." Maisie crossed her arms. "And why should you be okay?" she asked, intrigued. Who was that man? She'd been cleaning the office for six months and had never seen him. Of course, she hadn't seen many of the employees because she arrived late. However, she had the feeling that this small office, on the middle floor of an anonymous building, wasn't her place. He seemed… different, too powerful and charismatic. Even drunk, he was charming and attractive . But, aside from his sexual charisma, the man exuded a pain that reminded her of her own, her own grief.
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