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His apartment is a huge open-plan modern penthouse, with a wide entrance leading to a beautiful kitchen. The counter is marble with flashes of obsidian through it – lights switching on automatically as we walk in, allowing me to see.
Calling the space to the right the living room would be the biggest understatement of the century.
It’s massive, with four cream couches arranged around a giant seventy-inch TV, and past that is a workout area, a punching bag hanging from the wall, a bench and some dumbbells, a rowing machine.
Hallways lead off from the wide open space, presumably to the bathrooms and the bedrooms.
But one thing strikes me as I gaze around the massive modern penthouse.
It seems cold. There are no pictures on the walls, no flurries of personality.
Conrad stands at my side, looking down at me with that same unreadable expression. Every time I look at him, I think about that flash of pink, the frilly fabric.
Was I wrong?
Maybe it was something else completely, a note left by the building’s manager or something, on pink paper. And then my overactive mind dreamed up the frilly material and the lace of the panties.
“I spend most of my time at the hospital,” Conrad says, as though reading my mind.
Mom takes a few steps into the room, gazing up at the exposed rafters in the ceiling, the industrial-style lights which hang down and light everything with a bright white glow.
“This is a lifeless place,” she murmurs.
“Mom,” I hiss, as embarrassment shoots through me. “Don’t be so rude.”
“It’s fine,” Conrad says, chuckling. “I can’t say I disagree. Come on. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
He turns and strides down one of the hallways. I can’t stop studying the muscles which tighten across his back, pushing through his shirt. It’s like a compulsion.
Mom and I trail after him, our footsteps making click-click noises on the hardwood flooring. I can tell Mom is getting tired, agitated by this new environment, and all she wants to do is go back to sleep.
I fight down the rage which courses through me – rage that I always have to be the grownup now, rage that she doesn’t even seem here, really, more like she’s a ghost floating next to me. I can’t remember the last time I felt like mom was, well, mom.
It’s not her fault. I have to remind myself of that, but it’s so hard some days.
Conrad stops outside a finely-carved oak door, sort of in a cabin style, which doesn’t really match the modern surroundings. My mind brims with all the ways this place could be made homelier, all the ways little touches could bring life and personality, and love.
It could become the sort of place to raise a child, at least the first one or two before we moved out to the suburbs and…
I slam down on those thoughts, cursing myself.
He’s clearly got another woman if those pink panties are any indication, probably a string of billboard-model type women who leave him little gifts outside his door, reminding him of them.
“Here you go, Callie.” He waves a hand at the door, laying down the suitcase with his other hand. “Let me show you to your room, Mrs. Simpkins.”
“Please, call me Janet,” Mom says, almost sounding like her old self for a moment.
“Okay, Janet it is.” Conrad nods. “Follow me.”
I watch them go, smoothing my hands over my belly, as my womb sends impossible messages to my heart.
Go to him tonight, mount him, writhe atop him until he explodes inside of you and you can start your life together.
Sighing, I grab my suitcase and push the door open.
Chapter Seven
Conrad
I sit on the balcony, the night sky above me, clouds shielding the stars, and the city dark beneath me. It’s never completely dark, with lights glimmering into the night, but it’s almost three AM.
Staring down at the pink bundle on the table in front of me, my heart picks up speed, every part of me fraught with tension.
Why the fuck did this have to happen now?
It makes me sick as I stare at it, my mind flitting to Callie in her room, praying she didn’t see me grab them and shove them into my pocket. She was gazing around at the light fixtures and the wallpaper and the carpet, her interior-designer mind whirring, so maybe she didn’t catch it.
But what if she did?
I could ask her, but I don’t want to upset her for no reason if it turns out she didn’t see it. There’s no reason for her to learn about that mess, for our first night together to be poisoned by the past.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, warning myself that I’m going to need to grab some shuteye soon. I’m not at the hospital again until tomorrow – well, today. But I still need my rest.
