Your boy?
The dog sat and wagged his tail, not understanding the implication.
Tyler stepped out of her boots and surveyed the penthouse, left to right, up and down. The multi-million-dollar property featured clean, straight lines, wall-to-wall windows, wide-plank floors, and an over-height ceiling. But the best part about his house was the lingering scent—like a Calvin Klein’s Obsession ad brought to life.
“This is incredible,” she said, figuring it would be nice, but notthisnice.
“Sorry.” He picked up a sock from the couch. “It’s a bit of a mess. I’m in the middle of doing laundry.”
Why are people always “ in the middle” of doing laundry and not at the beginning or the end?Still, it impressed her that he was doing it himself. Dave always used a fluff-and-fold service to launder his clothes, but he had no money to buy groceries or pay rent.
“I’ll take you on a tour,” Cary said as Tyler took mental notes for Dylan. He started, “To the left are the guest rooms. I’m not surewhy I need them.” She poked her head inside. He was right. The bedding was undisturbed. “In here is my office.”
“Where are your awards?” she asked. “In LA?”
He’d won every award in the music industry a hundred times over, and she was sure they’d have taken up an entire room, even a gallery.
“I hate awards.” He shuddered. “Award shows. All of it. Sebastien’s got them, I guess?” He continued the tour while she paid close attention. “In here is my room.”
Her gaze drew to his bed, and the saxophone part from “Careless Whisper” penetrated her head. Emma Turner had slept in this bed. Okay, they’d had sex. She rubbed her palms on her leggings, having no reason to be jealous other than Emma was a perfect ten.
“And this”—Cary gestured like Vanna White—“is the kitchen.”
A boatload of containers from Urban Fare sat on the island counter.
I knew it.
“Before you say anything,” he said, unstacking the containers, “you’re taking the rest of this home—or I’m giving it to Ivan, the concierge on duty.” He paused, clearly impressed with himself. “He’s Russian.”
She glanced at her watch. “What time are you leaving?”
“Kim got a seat on our flight, so she’s picking me up at five.” He gripped his hands and wrung them. “Sorry for stealing her.”
“Are you kidding? Our booking agent friend Allie has been trying to find her something for weeks. You’d like her, Allie. She’s one of us—no bullshit.” Tyler pulled on the strings of her hoodie. “What did Sebastien say when you told him?”
“Nothing.” Cary passed her a red cup with a black lid that readartigiano. “A latte. With soy milk.”
“Thanks, it’s just what I needed.” She took a sip.
“I love that Cars song,” he said.
“Me too,” she agreed.
Tyler studied the photographs hanging on the wall, but the subjects in the pictures weren’t models or actresses. They were “civilians,” as Kim called them.
“These are so good,” she said. “Did you take them?”
“I took them ages ago.” He cleared his throat. “I’d still like to take your picture.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You could be.”
She ignored the compliment. “I work really hard, you know.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you,” Cary said. “I’ve got an exhibit coming up in LA. You should come.”
“When is it?”
