“Don’t tell me you sleep on this piece of crap.” I kick the corner of it, half expecting the side to fall off.
She pulls clothes from various suitcases and boxes before moving to the bathroom, flicking on soft light as she rummages through her medicine cabinet. “Don’t hate on it. You’d be surprised how comfortable it is. Plus, my time here is only temporary, and I’m broke as shit. I’m not going to waste what money I do have on unnecessary furniture.”
She turns off the bathroom light, zips up her bag, and comes to stand next to me. She looks at the couch and runs a palm over the back of it. “Would you believe this was free?”
I choke on a gasp, coughing so hard she reaches a hand up to slap my back.
“What?” she asks innocently. “It’s not like it has bugs or anything. Trust me, I cleaned that bad boy. Besides…” she says, pausing to grab her jacket from the hook on the wall.
I help her slide her arms in and pull the bag from her grasp to toss the strap over my shoulder. “‘Besides,’ what?”
She looks up at me, her beautiful brown eyes bloodshot and heavy. Gray bags line her lower lids, and it takes everything I have in me not to pull her into my arms to hold her.
“Besides,” she starts again, keeping her gaze firmly on mine. “I’m barely here. You know my schedule as well as I do. I haven’t even unpacked or bought myself a basic shelf.” She gestures to her bags in the corner of the room. “I literally live out of my suitcases and boxes because the hospital has been my home. In the last few months, I’ve been on call nearly every night of the week. I survive on snacks that I can carry around and greasy cafeteria food. Why buy a brand new bed that will just stay here and collect dust?”
My stomach churns, and fuck, if I didn’t already hate myself for tonight, that comment would have done me in.
Chapter Twelve
Annaliese
I’mgoingtothrowup.
Colt’s apartment is unlike anything I could have imagined. For some reason, in the rare moments I let myself fantasize about what his place would look like, I imagined something nice, of course. A condo well-suited for a forty year old, childless, single surgeon, but not one that had every single boujee addition one could imagine.
But then again, he keeps his personal life so distant from his work life that I wouldn’t have any inclination about the type of man he is outside of the walls of the OR.
So I let myself imagine a basic condo. Neutral design, maybe something he paid his realtor to figure out so he wouldn’t have to mess with it when he moved in. Or found an interior designer who took his credit card and renovated each room without needing his opinion. I imagined a standard leather sofa, a comfortable bed, and a spare room for friends or family if needed.
I definitely hadn’t expected to walk into the foyer and watch in utter shock as he opened a panel to silence the door chimes, then pressed additional buttons to reveal a built-in shoe rack. He casually slipped off his sneakers, placing both mine and his in the drawer then pressed the button again to have the entire panel disappear into the wall.
I also hadn’t expected to follow a marble path into the living room where there wasn’t one, but two, giant sectionals surrounding what I think is an ottoman that could easily be used as a double bed if needed.
I grew up with well-off parents in a wealthy neighborhood, and our home didn’t feel like this.
His condo is incredible, and there’s a strong chance I might throw up in it.
He leads me through the foyer and into the kitchen, ushering me to sit on a bar stool. Stunned silent and starting to feel the effects of the glucagon, a double dose, apparently, raging through my system, I numbly do as he asks. I watch him in awe as he moves around the expansive space, past the double set of sinks and opens up what I think is a door to a closet or pantry, but turns out to be a walk-in refrigerator. He disappears inside for a moment, and calls out something over his shoulder to me.
“Sorry.” I cough and subtly wipe the drool from my chin. “What was that?”
He pulls out three different prepped containers as he reads the labels off of each and sets them in front of me. “It looks like she made steak with a blue cheese compound butter, roast chicken with roasted brussel sprouts and sweet potatoes, and my favorite, her leek ravioli.”
Her?
Colt has never so much as mentioned a wife, let alone any woman in his life that was special to him, so hearing him appreciatively refer to someone as ‘her’ has me suddenly looking around the space, expecting a goddess in a silk robe to appear and welcome her man home from work. “Who?” I ask with hesitation, hoping I don’t sound like a teenager with a foolish crush.
“Gladys. My chef.”
Ah, of course he tops off his ridiculous house with a chef.
“I’m not feeling well right now; I know I need to eat eventually, but not right now. Thank you though.” I swallow thickly, looking around the expansive space and notice a bar cart along one of the living room walls. A row of bronze, likely pricey bourbons stares back at me, and a wine fridge that’s bigger than my kitchen fridge at home hums quietly in the corner. “That’s an impressive wine fridge.”
His gaze follows mine to the corner. “Are you a big wine drinker?”
I shrug. “I have a glass here and there, but nothing more than that. Usually I’m the awkward girl drinking water at the bar.”
He nods once with his gaze still on his wine fridge.
