The Penthouse Key

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Cold October rain hammers against the glass walls of the elevator as it glides thirty-four floors above Center City. Your weekend duffel is heavy against your shoulder, damp wool and leather smelling faintly of the train ride down from upstate. The keycard Brody overnighted to Ithaca clicks smoothly in the high-rise lock.
 
The penthouse door swings open into dark herringbone hardwoods, ambient city lights, and absolute silence—or so you assume.
 
You kick off your soaked loafers, letting out a breath of relief, and round the corner into the open-concept kitchen.
 
Standing by the waterfall marble island is not Brody.
 
It’s Callum Rhodes.
 
He’s shirtless, gray sweatpants riding low on his hips, a white kitchen towel slung over broad, defined shoulders. Water droplets still cling to the sharp curve of his collarbones and the messy swoop of his dark-blonde hair from a recent shower. A tiny silver hoop catches the dim kitchen pendant light. He freezes mid-reach into the refrigerator, a cold bottle of beer in his hand.
 
For a heartbeat, the high-rise hum fades beneath the sudden, sharp drop of silence. Hazel-blue eyes rake over your silhouette—taking in the pleated mini skirt, the cropped baby tee under your damp oversized bomber, and the defiant glint in your eyes—before a familiar, infuriating smirk cuts across his sharp jawline.
 
"Well," Cal's voice is low, gravelly, and entirely too amused. "Brody didn't mention he ordered room service from Cornell. Welcome home, Birdie."