Page 164 of The Rebel Billionaire

He smiles.

“You could fit my apartment in the corner of this room.” I grimace at the reminder that he spent half the night sleeping on my sofa.

He gestures for me to follow him to the living room.

I move toward the window. The space spans one entire side of the apartment building. Floor-to-ceiling glass frames unbelievable views of the New York skyline, and a large balcony offers outdoor space. How can he leave it every day?

A set of stairs leads to the second floor. This is opulence.

As if sensing my unspoken questions, he moves to stand next to me.

“There are four bedrooms and two staff quarters. Greta, my housekeeper, sometimes stays over if I’m entertaining, but I prefer my own space. Gabbi stays here when she’s in town. She’s commandeered one of the bedrooms.”

I step out onto the terrace. The sky is unbelievably clear for the middle of February, although the chill in the air lets me know it’s still winter.

“It’s like being on top of the world. Someone could almost forget their worries up here,” I say.

“It’s why I bought it,” he says, coming to stand next to me.

“Let me guess. Escape the craziness of Manhattan without a commute?”

He turns and smiles, my stomach clenching. This is Alex relaxed, stress-free.

“Shall we get started?” I say, turning around and walking back inside.

* * *

We walk through the apartment to a round office on the other side of the building.

“Okay, how do you not work from here every day?” I say, stepping inside the circular glass room.

“Too many meetings,” he says with a smile.

A large desk sits in the centre of the room, along with a sofa, an industrial printer, and filing cabinets. A number of fashion illustrations and flats are pinned to a freestanding whiteboard.

Alex motions to the four boxes. “Fifty in each,” he says, reminding me why we’re here.

“We’ve got this. You print. I’ll switch out the pages and rebind.”

I move to the side where a binding machine sits. Alex deposits one box next to me.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

I open the box the printers sealed over a week ago, take out the first file, and attach it to the binding machine. I open the spiral coil and remove the pages, just as the printer behind me whirls.

* * *

“That’s enough,” he says as I close the spiral binding on the thirty-sixth booklet. “I don’t know about you, but I need some food.”

I glance at the clock on his desk and then at the now dark sky. We’ve been at this for three hours, and we’ve only just scratched the surface.

I stretch, my back giving a satisfying pop.

“Come on, let’s see what Greta has left for dinner.”

We enter his kitchen, a space clearly designed for large-scale entertaining, with all the top-of-the-range appliances.

Alex moves to the double fridge-freezer, opens it, and stares inside.