FREDERICK WENTWORTH, IF YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT STAYING IN A HOTEL TONIGHT I WILL PERSONALLY WRING YOUR NECK
Okay. Maybe not completely free, he thought, and let his head fall back onto the headrest.
Freddie saw his sister standing in the center of the apartment building’s lobby before he even entered. She was hard to miss—despite being just five feet tall, her bright, hot-pink bob made sure she stood out in any room. Or, in this case, from just outside one.
He stepped across the threshold, ready to give her a hard time about siccing their mother on him, but before he could open his mouth, the familiar voice of his Realtor rang through the air.
“Isn’t it justgorgeous?” Birdie Carrington crooned, appearing around the far corner, her white hair perfectly curled at her shoulders and a Birkin thrown over one arm. She waltzed across the checkerboard floor toward Freddie, then leaned forward as if she would hug him—but a hug never came, only a brief kiss on either cheek. Behind her, Sophie rolled her eyes.
“And the neighborhood!” Birdie continued as her hand went to her chest, causing her collection of gold bracelets to clatter. “I’m so glad you could make time to see this one. You’ll love it. Justloveit.”
“More than you loved the penthouse on Fifty-Second, apparently. And that condo on Fifth,” Sophie added. “I arrived a few minutes early and heardallabout it.”
Birdie’s lips pursed, as if she had forgotten that his sister was there. She probably wished she could. Sophie’s running monologue during these showings had become the bane of Birdie’s existence.
“Your brother has taste,” Birdie said with a huff. “Who can fault him for being picky?”
Sophie raised her hand. “Me. I can fault him.”
Birdie gave her a sharp smile, then turned on her heel and started toward the elevator.
Freddie shot Sophie a warning look before following.
The lobby was like so many in Manhattan—clean and modern and hollow. Ivory tiles with a beige runner led down the long room to a tall mahogany desk at the back, while on the wall to his right were rows of mailboxes and an unassuming abstractpainting. None of it would have bothered Freddie except for the fact that remnants of what had been replaced were still evident if you looked hard enough. There was still turn-of-the-century marble wainscotting on the walls, and the mailboxes—each with its own small brass door—looked original to the building.
Birdie ignored all of it as she made her way to the open elevator. Freddie held the elevator door for his sister, then stepped in himself.
“The entire building was redone a few years ago, including a fabulous roof deck with 360-degree views of the city,” Birdie said, sliding into the elevator and pressing eight. The gears above them groaned as the car began its journey up. “Most of the apartments have also been remodeled with luxury amenities.”
“Most?” Sophie asked.
“Well, it’s impossible to accommodateallthe apartments. You can’t just evict longtime residents, what with rent control and grandfathered leases. This is New York,” Birdie replied, as if they should have known the intricacies of the city’s housing ordinances. “But there’s only a few of those in the building. For the most part, your neighbors would only be the best of the best. And yes, it’s a co-op, but the board is supposedlyverymotivated. We should have no problems greasing the wheels.”
The comment irked Freddie, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Eighth floor!” Birdie announced as the elevator doors opened. He waited, allowing Birdie and Sophie to exit first, then followed them into a short hallway. “Up those stairs is a door that leads to the roof deck. Apparently, everyone in the building has access, but for you it’s right outsideyourdoor.” Birdie waved down to the other end of the hallway as she turned left and stopped at a massive door. “And inside is a dream. Twelve-foot-high ceilings, parquet de Versailles floors, marble en suite bathrooms, and a French scagliola fireplace.”
Sophie let out a loud, melodramatic gasp. “Scagliola?”
Birdie didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, just nodded proudly as she unlocked the dead bolt and waltzed inside.
Sophie started forward, too, pausing just long enough to whisper to Freddie, “What the hell is scagliola?”
He chuckled to himself and waved her ahead.
Morning light streamed in from all directions as they stepped into the apartment. The main living room was massive and sat in the corner of the building, so two walls featured tall windows that were open, letting in the breeze. Birdie wasn’t lying—the parquet floors were beautiful, as was the crown molding and, from what he could see from across the room, the marble countertops in the kitchen that opened up on the other end of the apartment. But all of it was overshadowed by everything inside. Freddie had seen enough apartments now to know when personal adornments—photographs, awards, even kitchen magnets—had been removed in hopes of a quick sale, and this one was no exception. But in this case it didn’t help matters, because now there was nothing to distract from the interior design: the matching red leather sofas that were in the shape of an S. The blown-glass sculpture in the corner. A life-size porcelain tiger by the bar.
He walked past it all, down a hallway on his left where he found two bedrooms. One of them was huge, with an en suite bathroom, while the smaller one at the end of the hall barely had enough room for its queen-size bed. But it did have the best views. Like the living room, it sat in the corner of the building, but on the northwest side, with one of the windows facing uptown and the other the East River.
After a few minutes, Freddie wandered back to the living room. Birdie was standing by the bookcase, eyeing a sculpture on the shelf, while Sophie was near the kitchen, seated on a stool, leaning an elbow on the marble countertop.
“Well, what do you think?” Birdie asked, her expression lighting up when she saw him emerge from the hallway. He opened his mouth to speak, but she barreled on. “I know the interior design may not be your cup of tea, but the owners are taking everything when they move out at the end of the month, so just try to look past it.Visualize.” She held up her arms, framing the room like it would somehow help with the exercise, when something in her bag began to vibrate.
“Your Birkin is buzzing,” Sophie said, her tone bored.
Birdie reached inside and pulled out her phone.
“Oh! That’s the listing agent. He lives in the building and wanted to stop by,” she said, her attention on the screen as she headed toward the door. “Keep looking around. I’ll be back in just a few.”
