This is the first time he’s invited me to his actual home.
Every night for the past little while, it’s been my tiny studio in Astoria.
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say, even as something warm blooms in my chest. “I kinda like my apartment.”
“I do, too,” he agrees. “But I also like mine. And I’d like you to see it.”
He returns to his office and starts gathering histhings. He calls out: “Thessaly made her chicken marsala. You’ll like it.”
That would be his private cook. The name has come up, now and again.
And because apparently I have zero self-preservation instincts left, when he comes out, I grab my laptop bag and follow him.
So much for leaving work at different times.
Not that anyone was around to notice. Except building security.
In the parking garage, Indira is already behind the wheel of the Mercedes, with Callahan seated in the driver’s seat.
The drive to Tribeca takes fifteen minutes. I spend most of it staring out the window at the city lights, aware of Nico’s thigh two inches from mine, the woodsy spice of his cologne mixing with his maleness.
I can’t help the knot I feel in my stomach.
You’ve had sex with this man multiple times.
You’ve seen him naked.
Why are you nervous about seeing his apartment?
Because apartments are personal. Apartments have books and art and dirty dishes in the sink. Apartments reveal things that office desks don’t.
And yet, he’s been seeing my apartment all this time. All ofmyidiosyncrasies.Myvulnerabilities.
It’s about time I saw his.
The Mercedes pulls into a gated underground garage, and suddenly we’re in a whole different world. Reserved spots with official signage. Biometric scanners. The kind of security that screams “the people who live here could buy and sell your entire existence.”
Coolcool cool.
Not intimidating at all.
We take a private elevator that requires both Nico’s fingerprint and a rotating code that he enters with practiced ease. The doors slide open directly into his penthouse, and I step out into—
Holy fucking shit.
And I thoughtthe officewas nice.
Floor-to-ceiling windows span what looks like the entire west wall, with Manhattan glittering beyond like a jewelry display. There are original exposed beams in the ceiling. The hardwood floors are so polished I can practically see my reflection. A floating staircase leads to an upper level. And there’s art on the walls that definitely costs more than anything I’ve seen in museums.
“This place is beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. It’s objectively stunning. Magazine-spread gorgeous.
Nico is watching my face. “But?”
“I didn’t say but,” I reply.
“You were thinking it,” he insists.
I turn to look at him. He’s standing near the kitchen island, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. Like he’s waiting for judgment.
