And Grayson Richmond wanted to lord over us peons in a penthouse located at the very top of a tower.
The private elevator dinged when it let me off at the penthouse level. I walked through the mostly empty space. It was devoid of personality. It didn’t even look like a staged home; it looked like a half-empty museum. In one vast room, called the grand salon, was a single gray bench that looked at a white-on-white giant canvas that hung on one wall. The casual living room didn’t even have a TV.
The study was the only room that had somewhat of a personality. It had a view over the city and a glass door leading out to the terrace. One wall held a bookcase filled with books. There wasn’t anything fun or spicy, just a lot of the literary classics, all bound in leather, along with a number of historical biographies, several antique busts, and other knickknacks.
I climbed up the curving wood staircase in the center of the empty penthouse, pretending like I was a princess floating up to her castle in the clouds, Mr. Richmond’s freshly dry-cleaned suit over my shoulder. The two-story floor-to-ceiling glass offered the most expensive view in the city. The tower was so tall that we were practically in the clouds. On a particularly overcast day, it really did feel like I was in a crystal palace in the sky.
The dry-cleaned suit was transferred to one of the identical wood hangers in the closet. I would let it air out for twenty-four hours in the airing vestibule of the master closet, because when you had a closet the size of someone’s house—and really, what man needed a closet that size?—why not have a vestibule for your closet? Then I would transfer the suit into the large closet with the rest of the identical suits.
I stroked the luxurious fabric. Normally I liked my men like I liked my Disney princes—silent and wearing fancy military dress. A suit was close enough, especially the way Grayson wore it. If only he didn’t have such a terrible personality, I might actually fantasize about him falling in love with me.
“Like I want anything to do with you,” I said to his closet.
I scowled at the row of identical dark suits hanging in the rich-mahogany-paneled closet. Then I took out my notepad.
Lightly perfumed, the champagne-colored paper had pink flowers pressed in it. In a sparkly pink gel pen, I wrote:
You have amazing style. A man who knows how to wear a suit is a gift.
So there.
I added smiley faces and hearts on it just for good measure then stuck the note in with his cuff links.
I wasn’t going to hide my light under a bushel just because Mr. Richmond couldn’t handle people doing nice things for him.
I put on the soundtrack toThe Little Mermaidand twirled through his bedroom, which held only a bed, a dresser, and a single nightstand. Mr. Richmond didn’t even have any fancy throw pillows on his bed. Just a dark-wood headboard and a dark comforter. Strangest of all, there were no curtains anywhere in the bedroom. Shoot, there weren’t any curtains on any of the windows in the soulless penthouse. I supposed if your penthouse was located higher than everyone else’s, you didn’t really need curtains.
Or maybe Mr. Richmond was just an exhibitionist.
Or a narcissist.
Or just a weirdo. The man didn’t have any carpet. Anywhere. Just cold, hard slate floors.
“His feet must be freezing in the morning when he gets up,” I sang over the music. I twirled through the master bedroom and out into the wide hallway that overlooked the floor below.
“My beautiful subjects,” I announced to the empty penthouse as I descended the staircase, pretending like I was wearing a big ball gown.
Was this professional behavior for the assistant to the assistant to the secretary?
Nope. Anthym would have a fit if she knew what I was doing when I was alone in Mr. Richmond’s penthouse.
I dipped into a slightly shaky curtsey in front of the fireplace. It was gas, not wood burning, but you could still roast a marshmallow in it. Not that I had. I was tempted though.
I missed beach bonfires, and I missed the ocean.
I pulled the massive glass sliding door open and slipped out onto the terrace. The Brazilian hardwood decking was as emptyand as devoid of furniture as the living room. One single sad teak lounge chair huddled at the edge of the pool.
The pool water rippled with the breeze. It wasn’t super windy though. The terrace was protected all around by ten-foot-tall panes of glass. Twice a month the window cleaners came out to make sure they were extra clean.
I went to one corner of the terrace and looked out.
I wasn’t admiring the skyline. I was looking out at the ocean. We were so high up you could see the Atlantic, an expanse of blue past the gray of the city.
I closed my eyes, imagining that I was back in Florida, my toes digging in the hot sand instead of pinched in cheap plastic heels. It was warm there, and the sounds of the sea soothed me.
I opened my eyes before I could start crying from homesickness.
“At least you can see the ocean,” I reminded myself. “Let’s think positive and count our blessings.”
