“This is Mark’s building. You can get out now.”
“Oh, right, yes, I gathered. Leaving now. Just making sure my legs work.”
“Do you need a hand, lass?”
As I contemplate accepting, the door to the building opens and the heart-melting shape of Mark fills the doorway. He’s in a black v-neck and grey joggers, leaning on the door frame like a normal man. But he’s far from normal.
He’s Mark.
Formidable.
Remarkable.
“Don’t leave your man waiting,” Neil says, and I meet his twinkling eyes in the rear-view mirror.
My man.
I take a deep breath and step out of the car, hoping my exit will be remotely more refined than how I feel right now.
My trusted Converse carry me safely down the path towards Mark, and if I’m not mistaken, the look in his eyes tells me I made the right choice; my figure-hugging blue cotton dress seems to do the trick.
Once I’m close enough, he reaches out and pulls me to him, his large hands cup my jaw and tilt my face up towards his.
“I thought you were about to change your mind,” he whispers, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips.
“No, you didn’t.”
He flashes me that ovary-imploding grin of his and plants a kiss on my smiling lips. Arrogant arse.
One of his arms wraps around my back, and he pulls me inside.
“So, which flat is yours?” I ask, but I have an inkling.
“I live in the penthouse,” he says, pushing the button for the lift.
“Of course you do.” I grin at him.
He scans his thumbprint in the lift before he presses thebutton for PH, and we arrive directly into his vast lounge. It’s spotless, of course. He’s probably got a whole cleaning crew.
It smells like him. Clean, with a hint of that woodsy, smokey scent from his soap or cologne.
There’s a massive light-grey U-shaped sectional that looks brand new. It’s facing a wall decorated with art and one of those sneaky TVs that looks like a painting. His style is clean, minimalist. The ceiling is tall, with a square of warm light built into it. It makes it feel airy and calming.
Every item, every colour, and texture seem to have been meticulously picked out. It all comes together wonderfully.
Classic Mark, I believe. High quality and only the important things.
I walk towards the paintings, brushing my hand over the sofa as I pass it. It’s softer than I imagined, and the light friction tickles my fingertips. When I reach the collection of paintings on the wall, I’m not surprised to see that they’re all real. The brushstrokes and textures visible.
“Peter Halley?” I ask, nodding towards the bold geometric abstract. Colourful, but rigid lines.
Mark is leaning on the wall next to the couch, a smile playing on his lips. “Yes,” he says. “My decorator picked the art, so don’t analyse it too much.”
“You must like them, at least?”
“Of course.”
I turn to the full-wall floor to ceiling windows behind the sofa on the opposite side.
