I shake my head and head for the door. “Thanks for the evening, Luka. Have a good night.”
Brooklyn
Chapter 12
Moving in together. It’s momentous. A threshold I’ve never crossed in any of my past relationships. Not that Luka and I areactuallyin a relationship.
I step into his massive penthouse and pause in the foyer. No matter how many times I come here, the place always takes my breath away. The wall of windows framing the city’s most iconic skyscrapers, the height of the ceilings, the warmth of the wide-plank wood floors, the fireplace. And now, it’s my home.
But instead of welcome, all I feel is intimidated. Like I don’t belong. I can’t quite get my legs to move me forward, or my hand to stop clenching around the key Luka gave me. I don’t even know if he’s here, and honestly it would be better if he wasn’t.
Was this all a huge mistake? I don’t have a lot of experience with roommates, having never lived with anyone aside from my parents or Mateo. Will Luka and I just go about our separate lives, ignoring each other as we play out the next few years of this marriage? Or will it be more like what I had with Mateo, where we’d take turns cooking each other dinner, fight over whose turn it was to take out the trash, or wander into each other’s rooms for outfit checks? Actually, scratch that last one. I can’t imagine Luka ever worrying about what he’s wearing.
The sterile white of the walls and OCD-clean interior give me a pang as I realize what a stark comparison it is to the first place Mateo and I had together. We’d jumped up and down on the freshly assembled Ikea bed I’d picked out and then went to Etsy to order cute little throw pillows with swear words on them to spice up the plain gray sofa we’d found on Craigslist. Money was tight at the time, so we shared everything—hair and skin products, Mateo’s collection of vintage rock T-shirts, food. Even our mugs of coffee, especially after staying up until the wee morning hours drinking wine and talking about our dreams for the future.
That era of my life is over now. I highly doubt my fiancé is someone I’ll stay up late with, snuggling on the couch binge-watchingSex and the Citywhile eating cold Chinese leftovers. Time moves on, people change. I get all that. Yet I’m not sure if I should let myself grieve over the good old days I had with my bestie, or just keep my chin up and hold it all in.
My phone rings, displaying a number with a Chicago area code. I pick it up.
“Is this Miss Moss?” a man says.
“Yep—are you calling from the moving company?”
“The van’s about five minutes away,” he affirms. “My instructions are to use the elevator around back.”
“That’s right. Security knows you’re coming, and the door’s propped open,” I tell him.
We hang up and I take a deep breath, trying to shake myself out of this melancholy mood. Then I drop my key into the little ceramic dish on the entry table and head into the den. I’ve been here before, of course, but I’ve never really wandered around, and I don’t know how many rooms or closets the penthouse has. I don’t know when the housekeeper comes, either, though by the look of the place I imagine it’s often. I poke around a bit and find that besides Luka’s master bedroom, there’s an office, a guest room, and a small home gym.
I catch a whiff of Luka’s aftershave as I head back to the den. My stomach does a little flip in anticipation of seeing him. Though I paste on a smile, it wavers for a second when I see him standing there in dark jeans and a button-down that hugs his torso just right. It takes all my willpower to banish the lingering memory of his fingers stroking me until I came in his hands.
“Hey you.” He nods at me, showing off perfect teeth. “Welcome to our home.”
Luka runs a hand through his tousled hair and walks slowly over to meet me. He almost looks…nervous. Gone is the exuberant attitude of the other night when we announced our engagement to the entire world; all I see now is an insanely sexy but hesitant man who might actually have no idea how to handle having a woman in his house for more than a single night.
“Thanks,” I say. “I was just doing a quick walk-through. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. It’s your place too, now.Mi casa es su casa.”
He gestures at the room around us, as if I haven’t seen it all before.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “Look, I’m sure this must feel strange to you. I’m used to having a roommate, but you’ve probably lived alone for your entire adult life. I’ll try not to crowd you.”
Luka shrugs. “I’m honestly not home much.” He pauses, reconsidering. “I mean, I didn’tusedto be home much. I’m sure we’ll find a way to cohabitate here without killing each other.”
I wonder if it’s hard for him to be home instead of partying hard every night and waking up in random women’s apartments. Or only showing up here long enough to fuck before kicking the night’s flavor to the door and starting all over. Guess it’s game over for him now.
I should know better than to ponder Luka’s love life. It’s not good for me. Tension coils along my shoulders and I rotate them to work out the knots.
“You stressed?” he asks, pulling me close and gently massaging my shoulders with his thumbs. His touch is like magic, and I find myself leaning my head into his chest, inhaling his cologne and letting out a slow exhale.
“Less stressed now,” I murmur.
I’m enjoying our closeness way too much, even though I’m well aware that the power he has over my body is dangerous. It’ll be a long time before I forget the way he made me feel when he fingered me…or the way that booty call text hit me like a bucket of ice water afterward.
“Anyway,” I say, trying to keep my tone light as I force myself to step away from him. “I’m sure if you keep me busy enough with modeling gigs, I won’t be home much myself.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, hesitating for a moment before adding, “so I was thinking about the bedroom situation—” His voice trails off as the elevator in the hallway dings open.
