His voice is calm, and it’s a good look on him. He’s far more relaxed here, in his space, away from the office. He’s barefoot, as usual, but I keep my shoes on, knowing the heels make my legs look good.
The apartment is breathtaking. I’m only in the entrance hall, and it’s bigger than my entire house. It has a similar style to Crawford’s office. A lot of white and cream, with marble gleaming beneath my feet.
The marble stretches away into a living room beyond, where I can just see the edge of a sunken couch.
I’m about to move toward it when Crawford puts a hand on my shoulder, and I stop, looking up at him.
“If you go in there and change your mind, you tell me, and Melvin takes you home. The same rules apply as always. You don’t doanythingthat makes you uncomfortable.”
I nod.
“Words, Amelia.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You look stunning by the way; I like what you’ve done with your hair.” He frowns, as if he didn’t mean to say that, and I smile.
“I need a haircut,” I say casually. “I might chop it all off.”
I suck in a breath as he puts a hand into it, taking a commanding hold as I look up at him, frozen in place.
“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, plastering himself against me, his lips half an inch from my own. Then, just as fast, he lets me go and walks away into the main room.
I enter with a feeling of intense uneasiness. I’ve seen Ambrose Georgiou for thirty seconds, if that. He’s very good-looking but also seems like a player to me. If Crawford wants to share me, I don’t know how I feel about that, and I’m hoping ‘watching’ meansonlywatching.
As I walk into the room, I stop, staring. We are dozens of stories up above the city. Central Park is stretched out beneath us, the lights all around it like tiny fireflies in the night.
The living room features an open-plan kitchen at the far end, which is enormous, complete with a huge island in the center.
The kitchen occupies a significant portion of the far wall, featuring beautiful bronze barstools beside the island. Then, as you move through, there’s the sunken couch and a spiral staircase that rises to the floors above.
I only realize I’ve been standing for too long with my mouth open when Crawford chuckles behind me.
“You approve?” he asks, and for a second, it sounds as if my opinion really matters to him.
“It’s stunning,” I say.
“Then it suitsyouperfectly,” comes a low drawl from the couch, and I turn to see Ambrose lounging there with a glass of wine. He doesn’t approach me, which I appreciate; he just runs his eyes over me.
On anyone else, the look might be lecherous, but he seems more intrigued than anything, glancing between me and Crawford with interest.
Ambrose rises, stepping up onto the same level as us, but doesn’t come any closer.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Amelia.”
“Likewise,” I say automatically. But I’m unsure what to make of him. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with a white collar and a huge gold watch.
His style is very different from Crawford's. Ambrose seems more flamboyant, but in an understated way.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Crawford asks.
“Uh, maybe a small one.”
“Red?”
“Thank you.”
I hover, unsure where he expects me to go until Ambrose indicates I should sit in the little circle of the couch. It strikes me as an old-fashioned feature, more like a love seat from the 1970s, but it suits the space and draws the eye.
