We approach the elevator, which has a small card reader embedded into the side panel. “The penthouse is restricted access,” I explain.
I retrieve the slim black card from my pocket and swipe it across the reader. There’s a chime, and the elevator hums to life. This will bring us straight to the penthouse. No stops. No detours.
“Fancy,” Rosie mutters under her breath as we step onto the moving platform. Her fingers brush the railing, her gaze darting to the metal walls that reflect the two of us in distorted fragments. “Is this thing really only for you?”
“Us,” I correct with a small grin. “For now.”
The escalator glides upward, the noise of the lobby fading behind us. The silence stretches as the private corridor above comes into view—a short hallway lined with more marble, soft carpets, and a pair of oversized double doors that lead directly to the penthouse.
I place my hand lightly on Rosie’s lower back as I guide her toward the doors, then open them. It’s quiet at first, only the sound of our footsteps on the marble as we step inside. The air here is cooler, crisper, scented faintly with something clean and expensive.
Anticipation has been buzzing under my skin all night, winding up nerves I didn’t know I still had. Bringing her here doesn’t help either.
And kissing her?
Hell, I’ve never felt so nervous, but it was probably the best decision I’ve ever made.
There’s something about her that makes me want to leave an impression beyond all the glossy, empty parts of my life. I wanted tonight to feel casual, but our penthouse, with its perfectly arranged furniture and pristine surfaces, is about as casual as a museum exhibit.
As soon as I come to a stop, she takes a slow look around, her mouth slightly open. “Whoa, this is…”
Of course. It’s a reaction I’ve seen plenty of times. The rare visitors, staff, my mother’s friends, and her constant parade of acquaintances all wear the same look of awe and envy, like this penthouse is the pinnacle of what money can buy. And sure, it’s a marvel. To me, it’s a beautifully polished cage.
I sigh, feeling the familiar tension creep in. “Yeah, I know. It’s?—”
“Clinical,” she finishes, giving the place a skeptical once-over.
I laugh, a real laugh that catches me off guard. Her blunt honesty is a breath of fresh air. “You don’t like it?”
She glances around some more, then back at me, raising her brows. “Well, I’m a messy person, and stuff looking likethisgives me the creeps. Like I can’t touch anything without leaving fingerprints on some shiny, perfect surface. Or some housemaid glaring at me for it.”
“That’s exactly how it feels to me.” I sigh dramatically. “We could go to the movie room if you want, but… honestly, I’d rather go to my room if you’re okay with that?”
“You aren’tclinically cleanin there, too, are you?” She smirks, a playful glint in her eye.
“Well, I did tidy up, in case you wanted to come back here with me,” I admit as I usher her down the hallway. “But I promise, it’s not clinical.”
She throws a sideways look at me. “Oh, so you weresureI’d come back to yours?”
“Nope. Just hopeful.” I toss her a grin, though my mind is already jumping ahead to how much time I might actually get with her tonight. With any luck, we’ll get through two movies before my mother even thinks of coming home. She’s always out late on Tuesdays. Early morning hours, every time. Gives us all the space Rosie and I need.
Not that Veronica would actually care.
I just don’t want to make Rosie uncomfortable.
She walks in, glancing around. “This looks and smells way more like you.”
I cross my arms, half-amused and half-curious. “That’s a good thing?”
“A very good thing.” She moves toward the workout equipment, eyeing it with curiosity. “You work out at home too?”
“Sometimes,” I answer, feeling a bit on display but liking the attention.
She turns to me. “What else do you do?”
What else do I do?
That’s a loaded question. I search for a way to answer that without sounding lame.
