Hana had two canvas bags full of groceries—Walsh & Wilde branded, naturally—and I carried both. She led the way past the main elevator bank to a private one at the end of the hall, pressing a fob on her keychain to the keypad. The doors slid open immediately, revealing a car paneled in dark wood with brushed brass doors.
There were only two buttons: P and L. Penthouse and Lobby.
“Wow.” I blinked at the panel. “Your brother is making bank.”
“It’s his boyfriend’s place.” She pressed P and the elevator began its silent ascent. “Kenzo and I used to rent the unit across the hall, actually. Then he and Bradley started dating and now they live together and I’m renting in the South Loop with some culinary school friends. Have you met him yet? Bradley Walsh?”
“Wait.” I stared at her. “Bradley Walsh as inWalsh & Wilde’sBradley Walsh?”
“The one and only.”
“Holy shit.” I looked down at my borrowed hoodie and joggers. “I’m underdressed.”
“You’re fine.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Bradley is totally normal. For a billionaire.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
“He’s dating my brother. Trust me, his standards aren’t that high.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.” The elevator glided upward without a sound. “Anyway, I’m making pasta, not serving a ten course tasting menu. You don’t need a suit.”
“I thought we were going to have, like, pizza and beer. Watch the game on a normal TV like normal people.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I have enough pizza and beer with Avery.”
“My brother’s palate is not exactly refined,” I agreed. “I’ve seen him pound pre-workout dry like it’s Pixy Stix. Truly horrifying.”
“The things I’ve witnessed in that apartment...” She shuddered dramatically. “I’m in culinary school. It’s my civic duty to expose you to actual food.”
“And Bradley’s just... letting you take over his kitchen?” I asked, eyeing the Walsh & Wilde logo stamped on the bags. “Doesn’t he have, I don’t know, a private chef? Someone who would be offended?”
“Bradley loves when people cook for him. He says it’s more personal than going out.” She smiled. “Also, his kitchen is nicer than the one at school. I’d be stupid not to use it.”
“So there’s an ulterior motive.”
“I prefer to call it a mutually beneficial arrangement.” She bumped her shoulder against mine. “I get a dream kitchen. You get fed. Bradley gets leftovers. Everyone wins.”
The elevator opened into a shared hallway between two penthouse units. Hana fished a set of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door on the right.
“Home sweet borrowed home,” she said, pushing it open.
I stepped inside and stopped in my tracks.
It was old money elegance—the kind of space that whispered wealth rather than shouted it. Rich hardwood floors gleamed under soft lighting and crown molding framed the high ceilings. Antique furniture mixed seamlessly with more modern pieces, everything arranged with the kind of effortless sophistication that probably required an interior designer and a trust fund.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the far wall, showcasing a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. The last light of sunset painted the clouds in shades of pink and gold, the city glittering beneath.
But the kitchen—the kitchen looked like it belonged in a magazine. A massive marble island dominated the space, surrounded by professional grade appliances that gleamed under pendant lighting. Two ovens, a six burner range, a pot filler over the stove. It was a chef’s fantasy.
And standing at the island, slicing what looked like fresh mozzarella, was Bradley Walsh.
I recognized him immediately—anyone who’d spent five minutes online would’ve. The Walsh & Wilde heir had been a fixture in tabloids and society pages for years, the kind of casually famous that came from old money and zero fucks given. Tall and lean, artfully tousled blond hair, sharp green eyes that lit up when he saw us. He was wearing dark jeans and a black and teal Frost jersey, an apron tied around his waist that said KISS THE COOK in aggressive pink letters.
Even dressed down, he looked like he’d stepped out of a photoshoot. Some people just had that quality—the camera loved them and they knew it.
“There she is!” He set down the knife and spread his arms wide. “My favourite chef and—oh.” His eyes landed on me, sweeping from head to toe with unabashed interest. “And who is this gorgeous creature you’ve brought me?”
