Love Kills

I walked into the lobby of my new apartment building. Impressed by the modern look of the place, I stopped and stared. I heard someone clear their throat and looked up to see a man in a bellhop uniform standing in front of me.

“May I grab your bags Miss?” He asked politely, bending down and looping his hands through the leather handles.

“Oh no, I have to get the keys first.” I declined, watching him set the designer bags back on the polished marble flooring. I picked up the bags, that weighed more than I did, and made my way to the receptionist desk that covered the length of the wall.

“Hello Ma’am. How may I help you?” Asked the fat bald man in a uniform behind the desk.

“I’m Heather. Heather Faathers. I’m here to get my new apartment key.” I told him, watching as his face lit up with recognition.

“Oh yes. Your key is right here Miss. Your father called earlier today to make sure all things were ready.” My father, as a graduation present went above and beyond and bought me my dream house. Well dream apartment. Saying my family had a little bit of money was a major understatement. My father has bought me a loft in the middle of London. As a little girl, London and Paris had always fascinated me. Whether it was the gorgeous accents, the beautiful views or just the fact that it was far away from Beverly Hills, California, I don’t know. I grew up in a high class house in The Hills with my parents and my maid, Cece. As a child Cece had been my only real friend. She wasn’t stuck up, down to earth and sweet. The complete opposite of the people that I knew. Even though Cece was almost 20 years older than me, we played together, shared secrets and had sleepovers. When I was about 16 Cece was laid off, because my Dad was led to believe she was stealing. I fought him for weeks over it, but eventually realized it was of no use. Once Cece was laid off, I refused to go to school, causing me to be home schooled. After graduation, I told my mother that I wanted to get away. Seeming very enthusiastic about me leaving the country, she persuaded my father into buying me a London flat.

“Here you go Miss Faathers. Enjoy your loft.” Struggling to hold the key and the bags in my hands at the same time, I made my way to the elevator. Pushing in my bags, I stepped in and pushed the button for the 26th floor. Resting my back against the mirrored walls, I sighed when the elevator stopped. A woman in her late 50’s got on.

“Are you going down?” She asked, sounding uptight. She glanced at my bags, and moved her little dog to her other arm.

“No. I’m going up.”

“Oh bloody hell. This is going to take forever.” She mumbled, aggravated at me for going up.

“I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.” I replied, looking forward to getting out the confined space.

10 floors, and many random snooty comments later, we reached the 26th floor. I stumbled out into the hall, I looked down both sides of the hall not knowing which way to go. I made my way down to the left side, not finding the right door. As I turned around I bumped into something.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry.” I said, backing up. I looked up and saw the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen. Standing at about 6 feet 5 inches, he had curly brown hair, emerald green eyes, strongly sculpted cheek and jaw bones. I looked down and saw he had on a tight white V-Neck shirt on, showing off two love birds on his collar bones and an arm full of tattoos. I looked back up at him and saw that he was smirking. Dimples. He has dimples too. I felt my cheeks grow hot, having been caught staring.

“You're not from here are you? America right?” His deep raspy voice, sending shivers down my spine.

“No, well yes. I’m from America.” I said, lost in his eyes. They seemed to have control over me.