My stomach turns over.
I look around the lobby of this building again, taking in the gold detailing, the perfectly clean mirrors and fresh flowers that fill the air with a sweet, welcoming scent.
I’m no stranger to wealth. I’ve seen it in many different forms over the last few years. But even still, I can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable. I can only imagine the apartment that waitsfor me above. Something tells me that it doesn’t have a kitchen designed for actually cooking in. It’s meant to look pretty while the takeout containers are unpacked.
“Oh, it’s okay. I can wait down here for?—”
“Nonsense. You don’t want to be down here listening to me when you could be up there relaxing.”
I smile at him, but I fear it may look more like a grimace.
“He won’t be long, Miss Price. And anyway, I’ve got this to enjoy,” he says, holding up his cookie.
Seeing his smile reminds me why I cook. I might not be a professional or have any kind of training, but that—the happiness an incredible mouthful of food brings people—is why.
He presses a button, and the closest elevator door opens for me.
“Good luck up there, Miss Price,” Melvin calls.
“Please, call me Freya.” He smiles at me softly and nods.
Twinkling music fills the elevator as it rises through the building. As it comes to a stop, I inhale and close my eyes, steeling myself for what’s to come.
The doors slide open, revealing an entrance hall that confirms all my fears.
He lives in the penthouse.
A huge piece of colorful modern art hangs on the wall. Honestly, it looks like something Kodie Rivers’s daughter could have done in kindergarten. And beneath it sits abench made from what looks like a solid piece of wood that’s been varnished and polished to within an inch of its life. I’m pretty sure it has to be the most uncomfortable bench on the planet.
As I move toward the only door up there, even more doubt starts to creep in.
If the apartment beyond is styled similarly to out here...
I might be an okay cook, but I am not a tidy one. And if Cole Hansley is expecting me to fit into a perfectly square box, we’re going to have a problem.
I’m messy, I’m loud—or at least my singing is, when I’m in the zone—and I’m clumsy as hell. The exact kind of person who doesn’t belong in an over-designed penthouse.
I’m on the verge of turning around and giving up before I’ve even started.
My heart is racing; my hands are trembling, and I’m sweating.
None of it is a good look.
I stare at the front door and the shiny handle waiting for me to push it open.
My sweaty palms are surely going to mark it.
As I stand there debating whether to stay or to go, my cell buzzes.
Pulling it free, I find exactly what I was expecting: a message from Mom, wishing me good luck. But that’s not the only notification.
The other has acid rushing up my throat.
A memory from about two years ago with my ex.
I thought I’d removed all of them from my storage. Clearly, one slipped the net.
But as much as I hate looking at him and thinking about the time I wasted following him around the world, in this moment, it’s exactly what I need.
