Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I knew better than to reach for my own door, knowing he was coming for it, having the feeling he would be insulted if I didn't let him do it for me.
The lobby was wide and somewhat sparse, made up of whites and grays with a small seating area in front of a gas fireplace, a desk with employees to the left, and two sets of elevators to the right.
Luca's hand went to my lower back once again, steering me away from the counter, taking me to the elevators, then slipping a key into the second one.
I can't say I'd ever lived in a luxury apartment building, but I understood enough to know that when someone had a key to the elevator, they also had the key to the entire top floor.
Luca lived in the penthouse.
Overlooking the Navesink Bank.
Maybe it wasn't one of those five-million-dollar mansions, but I imagined it was still a million-dollar home.
I found that intimidating at best as we rode up the quiet elevator, as I watched it slide open into his apartment.
The entire space was open, bright. The floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the morning sun.
The walls were white, the carpet in the living space near the covered balcony was cream and gray, the couches cream as well, facing a massive TV against the opposite wall.
The kitchen was in the main, open-concept space as well, a long galley design with gray cabinets and white countertops, the stainless steel appliances gleaming and fingerprint-free.
"You live in a show house," I told him, shaking my head, finding it hard to believe someone actually lived in a space like this, that it existed as anything other than a space where pictures were taken for magazines.
"It's a little cold, I guess."
"No, it's not cold," I objected, doing another turn, taking it all in. "I just don't see any touches of you here is all."
"That's true," he agreed, nodding. "It came furnished. I don't spend much time here, so it never bothered me enough to change anything."
"It's a lovely home, Luca," I told him, feeling like he needed the reassurance.
"Let me show you the rest of it," he offered, guiding me down the hall beside the kitchen. "Half bath," he said, opening the first door. "Then the guest room. Your room," he specified, opening the next door, pushing it open.
Much like the living room, it was impeccably decorated with a full-sized bed covered in a black and white comforter and about half a dozen decorative pillows.
"There is a bathroom through here," he told me, waving toward the closed door. "Then across the hall is me," he added, going toward the door, giving me space. "I can't bring any of your things from the other house. Or send any of my men to pick things up. But I can lend you something for tonight. And then see if I can pick you up a few things tomorrow. I might even be able to get the concierge to run a few errands."
"There's no rush," I assured him, not admitting it aloud, but knowing that I had no problem with the idea of walking around wearing one of his shirts. Especially if no one else was around.
"I'll let you settle in," he said, moving into the hall, reaching to close the door.
"Luca," I called, waiting for him to push the door open a few inches. "Thank you," I told him, voice a little thick with emotion.
"Don't thank me for being a decent human being," he told me, shaking his head before closing the door and moving away.
I didn't have much settling in to do seeing as I didn't have any possessions.
But I went into the bathroom, finding a robe on the back of the door, and decided to take a shower, washing away all the craziness of the past several days, brushing my teeth, combing my hair, then making my way back out into the main area of the apartment. There I found Luca standing in the kitchen, his jacket throwing over a chair butted up against the island, a couple of the buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up.
"Are you cooking?" I asked, brows pinching.
Luca's head lifted, gaze moving over me, eyes going molten, creating a similar reaction in my core.
"No," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, if a man like him could be awkward. "I am reheating. My Aunt Adrian—Lucky's mom—is always dropping off frozen meals with instructions on how to reheat them. I figured you might be hungry. And I haven't eaten either. I was out looking for you."
"I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head.
"Don't be sorry for trying to survive," he countered.
"What are we having?"
"Lasagna," he told me, peeling off a couple of layers of plastic wrap. "But I need to get this garlic bread out first," he said, revealing a loaf wrapped in aluminum foil.