Page 48 of Xavier

"We don't call it that," he retorts, with a shrug.

"Why not?"

"Because we're not rich, elitist, show-offy snobs."

"Touché."

The elevator stops and I hold my breath as the doors open, not quite sure what to expect. This is his home.

Xavier steps out and turns when he notices I haven't followed.

"Well, are you coming?"

"I don't know, yet."

He looks amused. "Well, I don't know if you know this about elevators, but they go down as well as up, and if you don't get off, you're not going to be able to come back up again without me."

Right on cue the doors start to close and I step out, just before they meet in the middle behind me.

"Come on," he says, with a head tilt. "Sorry about the mess." I follow him through the entrance way into the main area of his apartment.

I gasp.

As an interior designer I've seen a lot of homes. Small, medium, large and gargantuan. Some could never be made beautiful, even with the help of some styling, and some are stunning examples of architecture, all on their own.

This is an example of the latter.

It's one big open space. A millionaire's loft. Floor to ceiling windows on all four sides, almost uninterrupted by the bare minimum of walls. Thick white beams hold up the ceiling, strong but elegant. Light streams though the open glass, filling every inch of the space with light. The apartment is completely sparse, but there's a sense of innate warmth.

I spot a king size floor level bed in the far corner of the apartment, beside it a stack of books. I can't help but wonder if he's still reading law textbooks. Scanning the empty space for more furniture, all I find is a leather recliner facing the window and beside it a stocked drinks trolley. I walk over to the kitchen area in the middle of the floor. It's compact and looks unused. I wonder how much time he spends here.

If I had walked into a stranger’s apartment and had to sum him up from what I see, I would profile him as three things: bachelor, workaholic, lonely.

And I have to remind myself, Xavier might as well be a stranger to me.

"So, what do you think?" he says, right beside me. And I jump, not realizing how immersed I was in his living space.

I take a breath before answering.

"Eh, I've seen worse. Probably should do something about the clutter."

He grins at me, and I try not to stop my stomach from doing a complete somersault. I don't know if he worked on it, but he seems to have perfected a wolfish grin. I bet women go crazy for it. A flash of white-hot jealousy rips through me, and I fake a cough to turn away, in case he can see it in my eyes.

"So, um, how long have you lived here?"

"Just over two years."

"And you’re getting furniture at the rate of one piece a year?"

"Yeah, I’m due for another piece soon. Maybe a key hook or something."

"That’s not furniture, Xavier."

"Don’t be a snob, Malynda,” he says, emphasizing my name. I'm still getting used to hearing it. I'm still getting used to him.

"Hey, stop calling me a snob, I'm not the one living in a penthouse."

Now it's his turn to say it, "Touché."