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This place is nothing like the penthouse with all its airy blank space and minimal lines. One of the reasons I turned my bedroom into a Parisian bordello was because I wanted someplace cozier and sexier to sleep. Don’t get me wrong—the penthouse was done exactly to my specifications—I’d wanted the space, the open living area, the high ceilings at the time. It just turned out I hadn’t loved it as much as I thought I would.
The brownstone, on the other hand, even with no solid walls in place, radiates warmth, and I’ve worked enough hours with the architect and designer to be able to envision the final product. I’m constantly shopping for furniture and fixtures, rugs and art. Obsessing over all the different shades of white paint.
Drew steps into what will be the living room and turns in a slow circle, looking around.
The midday light coming in from the large windows attaches itself to him like it’s seeking his beauty. It takes my breath away.
“This is what you want, right?” I ask, uncertainty and insecurity playing a nasty game with my mind after meeting with my parents.
I know he’ll say yes. But what I need is what comes after the yes. The absolute reassurance that he still believes I’m the one for him—a man not even his parents could love.
Drew stops moving and looks at me, pointing to the subfloor he’s standing on. “Come here.”
I go, placing myself directly in front of him and meeting his eyes stoically.
“Are you asking about living in Brooklyn, the brownstone, the remodel, or are you asking if I want to call this place my home with you?”
I swallow on a dry throat. “All of the above?”
“You know you’re my hero, right?” he asks.
I wince.
“What you did today…what you did for Elodie, for me… It would have been a real waste if I’d killed you that one time.”
My lips curve up at the edges. “Totally understandable, though.”
He touches my face and lets his hand rest on my cheek. I lean into his palm and hold his bright blue gaze. “Someone did something right with you,” he says.
“I’m looking at him,” I whisper.
Drew’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know about all that.”
“Believe what you want—I know the truth. You’re my hero.”
“Oh, you poor thing. You know you could do so much better.”
I run my hands up his solid abs, his sculpted chest, his broad shoulders, and I drape my arms over them. “It turns out I like fixer-uppers. Who knew?”
“It’s important for the idle rich to have hobbies. I’ve always said that.”
I smile. “Oh, really?”
He leans closer to me. “Really.”
His lips are close to my lips, and the warmth of his skin rivals the sunlight.
“You know what I actually think I meant? About whether this is what you want?”
He gives his head a slow shake.
“It’s just that I know—I think for both of us at first—we thought this might be a phase. Like why not fuck a guy—everything else sucks.”
His brow furrows.
I continue. “Like, I acknowledge it started out really toxic—self-destructive, even.”
“It was a rough month,” he acknowledges.
