That sounds exactly like commanding.
Then consider yourself commanded.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I could handle my own disasters without rescue from a man whoprobably had thread counts higher than my credit score.
But my socks were wet. My books were dead. And the thought of spending a night in Callum's space—seeing how he lived when no one was watching—was more tempting than I wanted to admit.
Fine. But I'm bringing my own pillow.
Whatever makes you comfortable.
I grabbed a bag, stuffed it with the few dry clothes I could salvage, and headed for the door. Paused. Went back for my pillow.
A girl had to have standards.
I'd been to Callum's building before—the fifteenth floor, where Hayes & Thornton occupied space that screamed "we charge a lot for our services." But that had been a business visit. Elevator to the office, intimidating receptionist, conference room energy.
This was different.
The doorman directed me to a separate elevator bank—residential, apparently—and gave my damp sneakers a look of barely concealed horror. The lobby art I'd rushed past on my previous visit now seemed to judge me personally. Everything about this building was designed to make people like me feel out of place.
"Fifteenth floor," the doorman said. "15A."
Same floor as his office. Of course. The man literally never left this building.
The elevator was mirrored, which meant I got to watch myself ascend in all my disaster glory. Messy bun escaping its elastic. Mascara smudged. T-shirt with a coffee stain I hadn't noticed until now. I looked like a raccoon that had wandered into a flood zone.
Fantastic.
The doors opened onto a hallway with exactly two apartments. I found 15A, knocked, and tried to arrange my face into an expression that didn't scream "my life is falling apart."
Callum opened the door in gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt.
I'd never seen him in anything other than suits. The casualness of it—bare feet, hair slightly mussed, glasses I didn't know he wore—short-circuited my brain for a solid three seconds.
"You wear glasses," I said, which was not the greeting I'd planned.
"For reading." He stepped back to let me in. "You're soaked."
"Occupational hazard of living in a swamp." I walked past him, then stopped.
His apartment was... a lot.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.Open floor plan with clean lines and expensive materials. Everything in shades of gray and white and dark wood, arranged with the precision of a magazine spread. The kitchen had one of those waterfall islands I'd only seen on HGTV. The living area featured a sectional that probably cost more than my car.
It looked like a showroom. Or a very upscale hotel. Or the lair of a James Bond villain who appreciated minimalist design.
"This is aggressively clean," I said.
"Thank you?"
"I'm not sure it was a compliment." I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. "Do you actually live here? Or do you just come here to judge people who own throw pillows?"
"I have throw pillows."
"You have two throw pillows. Both gray. Both arranged at exactly the same angle." I pointed at them. "Those are decorative. They've never been thrown."
"Pillows don't need to be thrown to serve their purpose."
