She agrees immediately.
It’s going to be an absolute nightmare.
“Have you ever had guests stay at your place?” I ask, doubting he has.
“Never,” he says, suddenly sounding very nervous.
“Right. You’re the guy who can’t even commit to a housekeeper. What if you hate me because of them?” I begin to panic. “This could be a total disaster!”
“Do you love your sister?” He reels me back in with a calm look.
“I can’t live without her.”
“Then I’ll get through this,” he assures me.
We finish our meal, notify the driver, and pack up our things.
In the car, Griffin continues our conversation. “This will give you a project. I need you to bring some homey touches to my penthouse.”
“You mean something that isn’t white. These are young boys, Griffin. You’re going to have to put drop cloths on everything. Who exclusively decorates in white anyway?” I snarl at him playfully.
“It’s clean and easy. For a man who doesn’t use anything he buys, it’s aesthetically pleasing. I’m going to need something that doesn’t scream ‘single, reclusive executive.’ Please help.”
He’s pretending to be helpless, but it’s sweet.
“I need new bedding for the guest rooms. Should I purchase a bunk bed? I’ll definitely need new furniture. I wonder if there’ll be enough room?” He muses to himself.
“Griffin, your loft is two warehouse-sized floors. You could drive a go-kart through your living room. There is plenty of space.”
“Do you think I should get a go-kart?” He’s officially losing his mind.
“Griffin.” I touch his arm, trying to console him. “It’s okay. New York is interesting enough; no go-karts. Yes to a bunk bed. You will need snacks, and they can spend their days in the pool... and maybe, just maybe, a less white couch.”
He switches gears on me. “You really haven’t seen the whole penthouse, have you?”
“Maybe you can give me a tour?” I rub his arm, feeling a warm kind of affection for this man who is terrified of children.
“I should have done that on day one.”
“It’s only been twelve days. You’ve got time.” I laugh.
“We certainly have made the most of them.” He laughs too.
When we arrive back in Manhattan, he tells me that he needs to go to work, but I stop him.
“I’ll let you work—I know that I’m always going to be competing with your career—but...” I hesitate.
“I’ll try and find a better work/life balance soon.” I hope he will, but I doubt it’s a priority.
“I just want to know... can I visit you for lunch sometimes? Or do you not want me around? If you’re bringing contracts home, can I ask that we eat together while you work, or is this a king and his concubine sort of arrangement?”
I am being serious, but he chuckles.
“You may visit me at work and take me to lunch at any time. I tend to work through lunch, and admittedly, I work too hard. I'm sure I could step away for half an hour.”
“Unless you want everyone you work with to get indigestion, I suggest you lengthen the lunch hour to anactualhour. That way we can relax.” I give him a snarky grin.
“I can’t do ‘other things’ at the office anymore, as much as you tempt me, Mrs. Calloway. But I agree. Lunches need to be longer.”
