His forehead wrinkled. “What about them?”
“Ah, I went to cross one once, and I looked, but a car came from the wrong way and almost took me out.” That had happened, and Ihad to come up with something, so…. “No one should go the wrong way up a one-way street. Don’t you think?”
He side-eyed me. “Ah… yes.”
Oh, God. We could add “boring as a bucket of air” as number two on the list as to what he thought of me, “mouth breather” being number one. Kill me now. I needed to save this. “What’s your favorite color?” Oh no. I didn’t just ask the most clichéd date question, the one people asked when things were going badly. I shook my head at myself and hugged my laptop bag to my chest. Being this close to him was short-circuiting my wiring. “I’m not really this boring. Honest.”
He laughed, the streetlights glinting off his perfect teeth. His laughter made me grin. After everything he was going through, it was a relief to see him happy, if only for a moment. Why did I care? Because I was a nice person. That must be it. Also, we both suffered from SPS—shitty parent syndrome. I wanted him to win because it was right, and also, it would give me hope that one day, I could win something too. Achieve the things I really wanted, even if they were above what the universe deemed appropriate. If I was ever successful, maybe my mother would finally be proud of me and see I was worth it. That we both were.
But I wasn’t holding my breath for that because a girl could die waiting.
“Boring is not an adjective I’d use for you. Also, the answer is scarlet. I would’ve bought a red version of this car, but black flies under the radar better. I try and avoid attention when I can.” And who could blame him. He had a huge target on his back. Why wave the red rag to the bullies. “What’s your favorite color?”
Here he was, showing me that he could be boring too. How sweet. “Aqua. It reminds me of the ocean, of course, and it’s bright and happy. It’s also the Italian word for water. Just to prove to you that I’m not just a pretty face.” I chuckled, hoping he got that I was kidding—I didn’t think I was a pretty face. Not that I thought I wasugly. I was just another average-looking woman with good marketing skills and no money. I preferred to think I was realistic rather than too hard on myself.
“No, you’re not just aprettyface. Do you know much Italian?”
“A bit. I downloaded one of those free apps a few years ago, and I could get by if I went. I’d love to go there, see Tuscany, Positano, and all the other places.” I sighed. There was no way I was getting there any time soon unless I became a flight attendant. Hmm, maybe I could do that if I didn’t get anywhere after the latest iteration of my marketing life ended.
“Sounds like someone’s been watchingUnder the Tuscan Sun.”
My mouth dropped open, and I let my laptop bag slide back onto my lap. “It’s one of my comfort movies. How did you know?”
He rolled his eyes. “You just named the two main settings in the movie.” He glanced at me before watching the road again. “It’s one of my favorites too. I love a good rom-com. But don’t tell anyone at work—they’d never fear me again.”
I grinned. He was just as cute as his car—meaning, he was freaking adorable, sexy, gorgeous, and… and I was getting carried away. I needed to stop tripping down the hill before I fell hard. This had a time limit—a week and a bit—and he wasn’t perfect because no one was. I’d do best to remember that my heart eyes were just hormones, chemicals designed by nature to ensure the species continued. If it wasn’t for those chemicals, Mark would still be a virgin because no self-respecting woman would fall for his shit. “You think they fear you?”
“Not really, but they do sit straighter when I walk past, and so they should. I’m not an ogre, but I expect the best from my employees. I don’t see the point of aiming for mediocre.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I wanted to ask him about his family, his relationship with his father, but he put his turn signal on and turned from 3rdAvenue into a side street. He stopped with his turn signal on and pressed a remote. We waited for the garage door toopen and for people to cross in front of us. The building was nice, but it wasn’t quite what I expected.
The automatic door opened, and we drove under some scaffolding—that seemed to be on every third building in this city—and entered. “I have a car space here, but my building’s around the corner.” Ah, that explained it.
“Oh my God, you have to walk to your apartment?! The shock and horror.” I opened my mouth and eyes wide, as if I’d never heard anything so preposterous. He laughed.
“Well, when you live in a nineteen-twenties building, you have to make compromises. Even rich people can’t have everything. We’re hard done by sometimes too.” He gave me a mock sad look, and it was my turn to laugh.
He parked, and we got out, and by the time I shut my door, he was standing next to me. “I was going to open your door.”
“Thanks, but I can open my own door. Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. You’ve been spoiling me with all the door-opening stuff. You don’t have to keep doing it.”
His brows rose. “Like hell I don’t.” He stepped closer, putting the toe of one polished, black shoe between my feet. My chest was almost pressed against him, he was that close. His ebony pupils had banished most of the blue from his irises. I held my breath as he said, “If I want to ‘spoil’ you, I will. Since when is opening doors for a woman spoiling her?” He lifted his hand and brushed his thumb across my bottom lip, just as he had in his office. “You haven’t begun to learn what spoiling is.”
Excuse me while I fainted. There was no blood left in my head—it had all rushed to my vagina. “Mmhmm.” That was all I had. He’d rendered me incapable of forming words.
His eyes were warm, and he wore a half smile when he said, “Let’s go. The sooner we get to my place, the sooner we can get to work.” He put his hand on my lower back, gently corralling me to adoor to a hallway that led outside. It was all I could do not to sink into his touch. It was embarrassing how easy I was.
His place was just around the corner in 5thAvenue. I craned my neck and peered up at the many stories of the grand building across from Central Park.
Of course he lived in one of the most expensive buildings in New York City, and of course he had parking, even if it was around the corner. And here I was, with no car and sleeping in a friend’s spare room. We were from totally different worlds. But that was fine. Instead of having a pity party, I was going to enjoy my short time in the world of the half a percent. It would do my marketing chops good, too, since I could get a true vibe of what ultrarich people had and wanted. There was nothing like immersing yourself in a demographic to get a feel for how to talk to them. Mark was rich, but he wasn’t anywhere near Curtis’s level. In fact, compared to Curtis, Mark was middle-class. That shouldn’t make me smile, but it did.
He greeted the doorman and introduced us, then led me to the elevator. Inside, he swiped a small security disk and pressed the top floor. I smooshed my laptop bag into my chest as we rose and then stopped smoothly. The doors opened directly into a bright foyer with honey-colored herringbone wood floors and white walls. Two human-sized abstract paintings framed the vestibule, one to our right and one to our left. Vivid colors splashed across the canvases in what looked loosely like a spray of flowers, at least to me. Maybe they were supposed to be cars zooming past or just brush strokes with no meaning. I often thought abstract painters were having a joke with all the know-it-alls who loved to deconstruct the meaning while cradling expensive Champagne in crystal flutes.
The paintings were pleasant to look at, though, the hues bringing life to the otherwise neutrally colored space.
He took my coat and hung it in a discrete closet that blended inwith the wall, then coaxed me through a wide double doorway and into a cozier space, which had the same expensive floors, but that was where the similarities ended. It was almost as if we hadn’t entered Curtis’s space until we’d walked over that threshold.
The evening windows of the New York skyline, like a pattern of static fireflies, were visible across the park from large, hip-height-to-ceiling windows. Central Park was in the darkness below, so the view would be spectacular night or day, but I did prefer the twinkling illumination of evening. There was something intimate and comforting in the lights that shone from hundreds of apartments and homes where people young and old sat down to dinner or to watch TV, settling in for the night where they were safe and warm.
