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17

ISABELLA

As soon as I go back outside, Sebastian helps me into the waiting Audi. The sidelong look he gives me says this goes way beyond only being concerned about his company.

Sebastian takes me back to his place—after asking, of course—and gives me an old Stanford T-shirt that smells like him. He offers me any bedroom in the house and tells me to get some rest. He doesn’t push. He just says goodnight and closes the door.

I have a top-of-the-line mattress at home, but whatever is in this guest room puts mine to shame. As soon as my head hits the pillow, the emotional exhaustion takes over, and I’m out.

I wake up at 7:30 to soft summer light spilling onto cream walls and polished wood. I use the luxury face wash, soap, and hand cream in the guest bath, twisting my hair into a low ponytail before I go in search of Sebastian.

The place is even more expansive than I originally thought. I finally turn a corner to find a small sitting room that leads to a spiral staircase.

“Ms. Medina?”

A young woman with auburn hair pulled into a messy bun and flour smudged on her cheek approaches me with a tray.

“Yes?”

The woman’s smile is welcoming. “Perfect timing. I just finished fixing breakfast. Mr. King is in the conservatory. Follow me. I’m Kiersten, by the way, Mr. King’s chef.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She gives me a cheeky grin. “You’re the first guest Mr. King’s ever had whom he’s invited to breakfast. I’ve worked for him five years, and I’ve never seen him like this.”

I flush. “I’m not really a guest. Well, not like that⁠—”

I stop talking when we enter the conservatory. It’s breathtaking. Three sides of the room have tall windows that look out over trees to the East River, with a line of sight from the Manhattan Bridge to the north to the Brooklyn Bridge to the south, all set against a bright blue sky. The crown molding is intricate, the wood floors herringbone, and silk-paneled walls frame a large fireplace.

“Would you like some coffee?” Kiersten asks. I nod my head in response.

Sebastian is sitting on a cream-colored sofa, looking entirely at ease. I take a seat across from him. Kiersten has laid out pastries, eggs, and sliced fruit.

“The jam is strawberry and plum,” she says. “The fruit was beautiful at the market the other day, and I ended up buying way more than we can eat, so I made a ton of jam. Take a jar home if you want, or five.” She winks at me, then exchanges a look with Sebastian that I can’t quite read. “Text if you need anything else. I have episodes of Greenwich Place to catch up on.”

Sebastian watches her leave with an affectionate grin.

“How long has she worked for you?” I ask. An odd spark of jealousy bites at me, though I try to ignore it.

“Five years or so?” Sebastian puts down his newspaper and adds a splash of cream to his coffee.

I add two sugars and plenty of cream to mine. One sip, and I'm in heaven.

“Oh, my God,” I mumble through a mouthful of pastry.

“And that’s why I hired her,” Sebastian says with a smile. “Also why she has an unlimited budget to buy too many strawberries and plums, apparently.”

I giggle. Sebastian pauses, his eyebrows arching, as if the sound of my laughter surprises him.

“She’s nice to have around,” he adds. “She makes sure I eat healthy when I’m working late. She’s difficult not to like.”

I grow quiet, wondering what that means.

“She’s sort of become the sister I never had,” he explains, as if reading my mind. “She’s kind and honest and doesn’t hold back her opinions.”

“This isn’t just an apartment, is it?” I ask. “Until this morning, I thought the entire place consisted of this floor only.”

“No,” he says. “This is a private home. Five floors, 7,000 square feet. Built in 1920 by one of the first female architects in New York.”