Reckless Hearts: A Billionaire Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

bumping and bouncing against my hip.
    It was a large building. Four floors. A massive arched doorway. It could easily have been mistaken for some old New England private school itself.
    I lived right on the top floor, and I took the switchback staircase two steps at a time so that the heat of my exertion burned in my lungs and sweat stuck my shirt to my back.
    I couldn't outrun those thoughts, though. I couldn't lock them out when I shakily shoved my key into my lock, pushed the door open, and then locked it behind me.
    "Just stop thinking about him," I said, "Just stop."
    I tried reminding myself how hard I'd worked these last couple years to get to this point. I'd done so much grant writing, studied so hard for my SATs, spent so long perfecting my entrance essay that I'd had very little time for anything other than school.
    I hadn't had a serious boyfriend since the 10th grade. I hadn't been on a date since prom. I'd sacrificed just about every social opportunity to pad my CV and get into the best school possible to start my career.
    I plugged my phone into the speaker dock that my dad had gotten me as a school move-in present and hit play. It had been on a studying playlist I'd filled with classical music. The harmony was supposed to help you to concentrate, focus your mind, all that.
    I sat on the bed beside it, the mattress pillowing my weight. I closed my eyes, trying to let the sounds fill me up, push out the other thoughts.
    It didn't work. So I turned it up. Then I cranked it louder. Then when I tried again the little volume knob wouldn't turn anymore. It was loud enough that my body trembled with the deeper bass notes.
    Someone banged on my door. "Hey! Turn it down in there unless you want to get written up!"
    You're on Peabody's radar now , I could hear Jennifer telling me. Now was the time to lay low, not go around collecting disciplinary notes.
    "Sorry!" I said, turning the music down so that I could barely hear it.
    Sorry was my by-word now. Why did I have to put my hand up? Why did I have to get him to notice me, even though what I wanted most was to go unnoticed?
    It was only then that I noticed the flashing light on my answering machine. All the apartments came fully equipped, of course. Flatscreen TVs, full kitchens (even though most just left campus for some fine dining) and of course landline telephones. Nice ones, too. Top-end AT&T models with touchscreen displays and everything.
    I never used it. My cell had a good enough plan. I don't even think I ever gave anyone the number.
    I swallowed, trying to open my throat up again. My mind immediately went to some dean or other here wanting to talk to my about my outburst. Maybe even Peabody himself wanting to give me a few choice words.
    Words I probably deserved. Maybe that was why Mr. X had called Peabody, to let him know he wanted me punished.
    My kingdom for a time machine!
    They were the only ones I could see having that number. It made sense.
    So I went over and pressed the button, steeling myself, waiting to hear some disappointed voice telling me they needed to set a meeting with me to discuss my future here at SNYUC.
    But it wasn't Peabody, or the Dean, or anyone from the school for that matter.
    It was him .
    "Miss Chambers? I'm sorry that I couldn't catch you to speak in person. I've been thinking about what you asked me. All the questions, actually. You seemed so vehement about your points.
    "So I'm inviting you to take a tour of Utopia's office here in Manhattan. Given by yours truly. I'd like to show you just what my company does to make the world a better place. Maybe you'll even learn how I manage to sleep at night." At that, I thought I heard the faintest chuckle.
    The message ended with him giving me his secretary's number to set up the exact day and time.
    Had I detected something there in that learning about the way he sleeps? My rational mind tried to convince me that it was a joke. His way of retorting to the question I'd posed him.
    Yeah,