Then, pointing at me, she asks, “Don’t you have one of those butlers from the movies? You know, in a suit and white gloves? This place deserves it.”
“Nope,” I say, leaning back. “I don’t like having people in my space, but someone comes by once a week to clean. I’ve only seen her once, I think.”
“It must be hard to run into someone in this apartment,” Lauren jokes, glancing around at the sheer size of the place.
“The good thing about living alone is that I don’t have to worry about that. Oh, by the way, there’s a bell in one of the kitchen drawers. Hang it around your neck in case you get lost in the halls of this place,” I say with a smirk.
Lauren gives me a deadpan look, but then bursts into uncontrollable laughter, and I can’t help but join in. Sharing a laugh with her feels like the best medicine. It calms my chest, quiets the lingering anxiety, and fills my heart with something new. It’s not stress, and for once, it’s not loneliness either.
“Bed,” she orders, snapping me back to reality.
I exhale through my nose, chuckling at her sudden bossiness. “Are you coming with me?”
“No,” she replies firmly, “but if you give me some blankets and a pillow, I’m ready to sleep.”
“You’re really going to stay?” I ask, a bit surprised.
“Yes, didn’t you hear Mike? He said you needed someone to stay with you tonight. Unless you have someone else in mind,” she says casually, and something in me flares up at the way she saysMikeso easily.
“Mike?Now it’sMike?” I mutter, feeling a wave of jealousy hit. “Well, choose the guest room you like best,” I say, pointing to the hallway where there are about five doors. “They’re all ready.”
Lauren looks at the doors, then glances at my bedroom door, and she looks overwhelmed.“No, that’s too far. If something happens to you, I won’t be able to hear you. I need something closer.”
“I insist, there’s nothing closer than my bed,” I say, half-joking, half-hoping.
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Silas,” she says matter-of-factly, as if it should be obvious. “Especially not with yourcondition.”
“So, there’s a chance?” I tease.
She rolls her eyes and completely ignores the comment. “I'm going to sleep in this chair,” she says, making her way toward my designer chair—“Don’t even think about it,” I say, shaking my head. “That chair costs more than a year’s rent for your shoebox.” The chair was expensive, and custom-made from Japan, but I’m not about to dive into those details right now.
“In any case, you’re sleeping in the chairin my room. Come on.”
“I'm not falling for that,” she says, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one leg, looking at me like I’m trying to pull the oldest trick in the book.
I raise an eyebrow, giving her a mock-innocent look. “I’m being practical. You wanted to be close, right? The chair’s there, you’re close by, and you don’t have to sleep on something worth more than most people’s cars.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly suspicious of my intentions.
I can't help but smile. “What's wrong? You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you,” she says, but the way she crosses her arms tighter tells me otherwise.
“Then stop being stubborn and come sit in the overpriced chair in my room,” I say, grinning. “It’s the perfect compromise.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t budge. Looks like I’m not winning this round so easily.
I walk over to Lauren, grab her arm—not too roughly, but enough to let her know I’m done with the back and forth—and guide her into my room. I’m tired of dancing around this. Maybe sex isn’t happening tonight, but we both know where this is headed, eventually. Denying it feels pointless.
My room is just like the rest of the apartment—minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that show off the city skyline. You can see everything from here, the lights of New York stretching out endlessly. My bed is king-sized, with a sleek, light wood headboard. There’s a white lounge chair in the corner, the perfect spot to relax in, though more than once I’ve ended up sleeping there instead of the bed. Lauren’s eyes sweep over everything, taking it all in—the golden lighting on the ceiling, the modern, light wood nightstand, the gray carpet that stretches across the floor. Her gaze lingers on the painting across from the bed. It’s entirely black except for a golden sphere in the center, an investment piece from a well-known New York artist. I don’t care much for art, but I got it for the same reason I get everything—it fits.
Lauren’s reaction is hard to read. She’s taking it all in, but there’s a distance in her eyes like she’s more curious than impressed. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to her—she’s not dazzled by all of this.
“See? A chair, at such a prudent distance from the bed that even a nun would approve,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
Lauren eyes me with suspicion, arms still crossed.
“Have I ever done anything without your consent?”
