Page 67 of My Real Love Affair

He led me to a private elevator that required a key card. Of course it did. Because regular elevators were for regular people, and Austin Bancroft was decidedly not regular people.

The elevator opened directly into his penthouse suite. The hotel was posh. I’d actually been in one of the rooms before to do an interview with a journalist from LA. But that room had looked like something from the Bates Motel compared to the penthouse.

“Holy shit,” I breathed.

“What?”

“This is insane.”

The penthouse was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Manhattan. The furniture looked like it belonged in an architectural magazine. Everything was sleek and modern and screamed money.

“This is where you’ve been staying?” I turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. “This whole time?”

“It’s not that impressive.”

“It’s a palace. You’re living in a palace in the sky.”

He shrugged, clearly unbothered by the excess. “It’s a hotel penthouse. I’m between places right now.” He moved toward what appeared to be a bar area. “Want the tour first, or drink first?”

“Tour. Definitely tour. I need to see all of this ridiculous luxury.”

His grin was boyish and genuine. “Okay, come on.”

He walked me through the penthouse, pointing out features like they were normal things everyone had. The gourmet kitchen with appliances I couldn’t even identify. The living room with a TV that took up an entire wall. The home office with enough tech to run a small country.

“And through here.” He opened a door, revealing a hallway. “This is where it gets fun.”

“Fun how?”

“You’ll see.”

The hallway led to an entire wing dedicated to wellness. A fully equipped gym with every machine imaginable. A sauna that looked like it belonged in a spa. He told me about the pool on the roof that had private access for just him or whoever was in the penthouse.

“This is obscene,” I said.

“This is Bancroft standard.” He kept walking. “Hot tub’s over here. Ice bath there. Great for recovery after workouts.” He opened another door. “This is the spa room.”

It was exactly what it sounded like. A massage table. Soft lighting. Shelves lined with expensive-looking oils and lotions.

“I have an on-call masseuse,” Austin explained. “She comes by a few times a week. Works out all the kinks.”

The image hit me immediately. Austin on that table. Shirtless. Naked. Maybe in just a towel. Some beautiful masseuse running her hands over all those muscles I’d felt through his shirt as he moaned and groaned with pleasure.

“Melody?”

I snapped back to reality, my cheeks burning. “What?”

“You zoned out. You okay?”

“Fine. Totally fine. Just… processing all this luxury.” I turned away from the massage table, trying to get the image out of my head. “You said something about a drink?”

“A drink is one way to unwind,” he said with a suggestion. “Or I could give you a massage.”

“No!” It came out too loud, too fast. “No. Absolutely not. New ground rule. No massages.”

He stepped closer, and I could smell his cologne again. “Why not? You’re tense. I can see it in your shoulders. You were nervous all through dinner.”

“Because I was having dinner with your father.TheArmand Bancroft. That’s nerve-wracking!”