The penthouse elevator is due for scheduled maintenance and will be out of action for a few days next week.
“I’ll make sure he knows,” I assure him. “I’m making brownies today. What time are you here until?”
“I’ll work a double shift if it means I get treats, Miss Price.”
“Please, call me Freya,” I beg for the millionth time. I know it’s not going to work, but I try nonetheless.
He smiles at me fondly, silently confirming my suspicion. “I should get going before I’m even later than I already am. My car broke down,” I explain before he has a chance to ask. “And Cole is angry at me because I didn’t call him for help.”
“Ah, I see. Mr. Hansley likes to take care of those who are important to him.”
I tilt my head to the side as I study the older man. I can’t help but wonder what Cole might have done for him to say that.
“So I’m learning. I’ll see you a little later.”
“Have a good day, Miss Price. I’m looking forward to your brownies already.”
With a smile, I step into the elevator he’s called for me.
“You too, Melvin,” I say before the doors close and I’m carried to the top of the building.
I let myself in, and as soon as I step into the apartment, the scent of coffee hits me.
My mouth waters as my legs carry me forward.
“You have no idea how much I need that,” I say the second I find Cole sitting in his favorite seat at the island with two mugs of coffee before him.
He reaches out and slides my mug a little closer.
“Thought you might,” he rasps. “Good to see you made it safely.”
I raise a brow as I take my first sip. “You say that as if you weren’t tracking my every movement.”
“I don’t trust strangers.”
“Do you trust anyone?” It’s meant to come out like a joke, but Cole’s serious expression lets me know my words hit wrong.
“You. And because I trust you, I don’t trust anyone else with you.”
My mouth opens and closes as I fight to find words to reply with.
“You’re not getting an Uber to or from work ever again,” he states firmly.
“It’s fine. My car will be fixed today and…what?” I ask when he just glowers at me.
“Have you spoken to the garage yet?”
“Uh…no. Why?”
“I’ll sort it,” he states.
“You don’t even know where my car is,” I argue.
“I know enough. I’ll sort it.”
I want to argue, but the determination in his eyes stops me from saying anything but, “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
He nods in acceptance before asking what’s for breakfast, as if I don’t send him weekly meal plans to approve.
