I take the small cooler and follow him, though I’m not at all sure my bags and I will be staying. He sets the cases down on the cracked cement walkway and opens the door. Looking into the abandoned warehouse, I’m greeted by decrepit equipment and piles of rusted chains.
“There’s no goddamned way I’m staying here.” I record a video, turning in a circle to capture the full extent of the deserted factory.
Sorensen doesn’t say anything, despite my whispered explosion of curses. Which I guess isn’t surprising. Anyone who would live in a place like this must be insane.
Once I send the video to my parents, there is no way they’ll force me to stay. His uncle needs to see it too, so he can stage an intervention.
The Viking continues to a metal staircase. Without looking back, he starts up them.
With an exasperated sigh, I follow him. Might as well capture it all.
I don’t bother to carry the cooler upstairs.
At the top, he sets the suitcases down and pulls keys from his pocket to unlock the door. When he pushes it open, he nods for me to precede him inside.
Stepping in, I enter a whole other world. There are massive windows overlooking the river, which allow sunlight to cascade in. The walls have been painted white and the giant space is broken up by oak-framed opaque glass panels.
The decor is Scandinavian and modern, with pale, neutral colors. I don’t care for pallor, but here it creates a calm, welcoming space. It also allows the windows to be the focal point.
There’s a wood bench directly in front of the center window, which reminds me of the benches in art museums that sit in front of master works.
When I turn around, my suitcases sit next to the door, but the man who carried them up is gone.
A few minutes later, he returns, carrying the trunk with the cooler atop it. The trunk is so long that only someone with his incredible arm span could carry it alone. After he lowers it to the floor, he turns and closes the door.
Removing his coat, he glances over at me. After he hooks his coat on a polished nickel stand, he reclaims his phone from a coat pocket and tosses it on the kitchen counter.
I shed my coat and immediately notice how cold the loft is. No wonder Erik’s dressed in a thick sweater over his t-shirt and jeans. When he sits on the bench and removes his boots, wool socks are revealed. Beneath my thin sweater, the cold tightens my nipples to points.Just great.
“Nice place. But way to bury the lede,” I say, using a journalism expression he should appreciate.
The corner of his mouth twitches into a brief smile.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I rub my upper arms. “What’s the temperature in here?”
“Comfortable.”
“Oh yeah? Says who? Hibernating bears?”
He grabs a throw blanket from the couch and holds it out to me.
My brow quirks, but I walk over and take it. It’s the softest cashmere, which strikes me as an unexpected choice for a guy who looks as though he belongs on a Mount Everest expedition.
I drop the blanket on the edge of the light gray couch. I need the throw, but it’ll be unmanageable while I unpack the cooler.
His enormous stainless-steel fridge is packed with food. I consolidate his items to give myself a quarter of a shelf for my hot sauces,Cotijacheese, tomatoes, and avocado dressing. I set the plantains, poblano peppers, and corn tortillas on the white stone countertop next to the fridge.
As I explore the cabinets and drawers, I’m impressed by how organized things are. I find a cutting board and large knife and set them next to the food.
“Save your appetite. We’re going to Heyworth’s place. He’s got a personal chef.”
I turn to face him. “I think what you meant to say was, ‘Arya, would you like to come with me to Declan Heyworth’s for dinner?’”
A slow smile forms, the white of his teeth all the brighter since it’s surrounded by his beard. His hair is golden blond, not strawberry, so it’s strange that his beard has a hint of red. Overall, I like the effect.
“Is one of your parents a redhead?”
His fingers stroke his beard, and he shakes his head. “No, but there are redheads in my mother’s family.”
