The doors chimed and opened to a vestibule full of gleaming wood floors, a coat closet, a console table, a security panel, and the door.
I guess it was probably a buffer zone—a place for assistants or delivery persons to drop off packages, dry cleaning, or food orders.
Understandably, Harrison didn’t want a bunch of building employees just walking into his apartment. And it probablyworked from a security standpoint to make sure there was one more door, one more security checkpoint, between strangers and his home.
Sucking in a breath, I made my way to the door and started to lift my hand to knock, when the screen beside the door announced, “Approved access.”
The door unlocked.
Jesus.
He’d even set his security system up to recognize me?
I pushed open the door and stepped into, well, the nicest freaking penthouse I’d ever seen. And I’d seen a few.
The space was open, the dozens of windows letting the city lights in, but the cozy, warm lighting inside made it all somehow feel a world away.
The floors were the same gleaming dark wood as in the vestibule; the walls were gray.
Directly in the center of the space was a sprawling living area with four sofas, a giant coffee table, and a TV hanging over a gas fireplace.
To the left was a kitchen that melted into a dining room.
The cabinets were black, the island a waterfall of black marble.
It all leaned masculine but somehow didn’t come off cold thanks to the abundance of overhead, standing, and table lighting, little touches of brushed copper and aged bronze, artwork, carpet, and wood.
Whatever he paid his interior designer, it was worth every penny.
As I stood there, the scent of tomato, garlic, and basil wafted over to me, making my mostly empty stomach grumble.
“Layna,” Harrison’s voice called, making me turn to see him moving out of a door to the side of the kitchen that must have been a pantry.
Those damn sleeves were rolled up again. And he had a bag of those little pasta circles in his hand.
“I hate that I like your apartment,” I admitted, making a smile tug at his lips.
“I’ll take the compliment,” he said, making his way into the kitchen.
“You’re cooking?”
“I am.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I do.”
“I don’t.”
“You told me,” he said. “You can make a mean boxed mac & cheese, grilled cheese, or cheese omelet. You’re heavy on the cheese in your culinary pursuits.”
“In my defense, I’ve never had my own place with a kitchen to learn.”
“And when you crash with your cousins, you order in.”
“I also hate that you know so much about me and I know nothing about you.”
“You can ask me anything you want to know.”
