I texted one of my dad's associates almost immediately once I got the news the brownstone was sold. I wanted the name of the buyer and he wanted me to put in a good word for him with my dad. He reached out to a couple of brokers he knew and within the hour I had the confirmation I didn't really need.
The buyer was Smith Booth.
I didn't discuss any of it with my dad because my opinion matters little to him. I got what I wanted out of the agreement and it changed what I felt for Smith from that moment on.
I turn to the stage as soon as I hear the beginning chord of "Sweet Caroline."
It was my grandma's name.
Caroline. Sweet Caroline.
I can't bear hearing her name right now.
"I'm leaving." I turn back to Smith. I've thought over and over about the moment I'd eventually confront him about what happened. There was never once a scenario in my mind where would he say that he had no idea why I'm upset. I assumed that he was living under an umbrella of guilt for taking away something so precious that was within my grasp. I've had it wrong all along. I don't know what to make of that or what I'm feeling after that kiss.
"Do you want me to come with you, Brynn?"
The question catches me off guard. I should want to walk away from him right now. I need to take some time to think through what's happened between us tonight. Instead of telling him I want to be alone, I look into his eyes. "If you want to."
He stands, his hand circling my waist. "I want to more than anything. Lead the way."
My first thoughtwas to take Smith home. Not with me and not so we could round third base even though that's the only thing that consumed my thoughts my senior year of high school.
I wanted to take him to his home; the brownstone on East Sixty-Seventh Street where I should be living with Pike. As soonas we hit the sidewalk outside Easton Pub and I felt the lazy heat that fills summer evenings in New York, I changed my mind.
I craved the calm that comes from the city. Some people find it chaotic and loud. To me, it's the center of peace. When I need to think there's no better place for me than outdoors, even in this jaded, unpredictable city.
Going to Smith's place would mean I'd see all the rooms that my grandma wanted so desperately to see again. I want that, but right now my mind is reeling. I'm still trying to process the kiss, not to mention the fact that Smith seems oblivious to the reality that he stole something from not only me but my grandma too. She wanted to live in that brownstone and spend the rest of her life in the house that she always imagined she'd call home.
She first told me about it when we were hurrying down a quaint street on the Upper East Side on a rainy afternoon when I was in college. She stopped mid-step to stare at the façade of a home and I could tell by the look of enhancement on her face, that the building owned a piece of her heart.
I pushed for more details and over the weeks and months that followed, she told me tales of her mom and the work she did there. I smiled when she explained how she and her sister would spend summer days in the kitchen of the brownstone when my great-grandmother couldn't find a neighbor or friend to take care of them.
I laughed when my grandma told me that she'd written her name on the inside of the pantry door. It was a tangible sign that she'd grown up in that home in a very limited, restricted way.
The picturesque red-bricked townhouse brought a light to her face; a face that had aged beautifully and gracefully even though her body and mind had become worn with the passing years.
"Where are we going, Petal?" Smith's voice breaks through the mountain of memories.
I look up at him. I want to ask him about Sigrid Hull, the woman he bought the brownstone from. She was a model at the time and he was the host of a nationally syndicated entertainment show. Their paths crossed at a charity fashion show here in New York. He was based in Los Angeles back then, but for some inexplicable reason, he bought her place.
He knew I wanted it. I'd reached out to him twice asking him to arrange a meeting between Sigrid and me. I left messages for him both times explaining the sentimental value that property held for my grandma. I wanted to appeal to Sigrid's heart after I'd put in my offer. It was full ask, all cash, with no contingencies and a thirty-day close.
I thought I had it within my grasp, but then Smith swooped in and signed on the dotted line, for less money, terms that didn't match mine and a list of contingencies a mile long. Two days later he escorted Sigrid to the Met Gala.
My grandma died three months later still holding onto the hope that she'd live in that house one day. She left me everything, including Pike, and the guilt that I couldn't fulfill her last dream.
"We're going to the top of the world," I say, finally. I don't need to add anything to it. There's no explanation necessary. Smith knows.
His mouth curls up in a soft smile. "I'll get us an Uber."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Smith
The top of the world.
To most of the people in Manhattan it means the observation deck of the Empire State Building or the city-wide views at the top of Rockefeller Center. That's not what it means to Brynn and me.
