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“Good evening, ma’am,” a man in a black suit greets, his British accent posh and thick. “Are you Miss Kraft?”
I nod. “Yes, hi.”
He bows. “I am Porter, your driver. Please, step in,” he says while holding open the door of a black sedan. Oh wow, this feels surreal. Once inside the vehicle, I look around. It’s just a regular town car, but there’s definitely the scent of luxury permeating the air. Quickly, Porter shuts the door and then we pull away from the curb.
The drive is scenic, and soon, we’re crossing the bridge from New Jersey into Manhattan. As the cityscape rolls by, I gaze out the windows, my eyes wide. I’ve always loved New York with its towering buildings and people scurrying about like ants. One day, I’ll move here and find my own spot. It doesn’t even have to be fancy. I’d be happy with a small nook to call my own, and the freedom to explore this wondrous place. But tonight, I’ve got other things on my mind.
The driver pulls up before a huge granite building with a circular driveway and a doorman out front.
“Miss?” the driver asks. I jolt back to reality. Goodness, I was so lost in thought I didn’t even notice that we’d stopped and now Porter’s standing on the curb, holding the door open for me.
“Oh, sorry. Thank you.” The portly man helps me out of the car and bows courteously once more.
“Have a good night, Miss Kraft,” he says before pulling away. It’s then that I take a deep breath and enter the luxurious lobby. Goodness, the floors look to be marble and there’s a giant piece of art behind the reception desk that appears very expensive. A concierge smiles kindly.
“You’re here to see …?”
“Preston Cahill,” I manage in a breathy voice. “I’m Carolyn Kraft.”
He dials something, and then nods.
“Please, proceed to the right. The first bank of elevators,” he directs. My heels tapping on the polished floor, I make my way to a set of silver doors and then with a swoosh, I’m being swept up to the penthouse level. This is all incredibly fancy, and not what I’m used to at all. Back in my little town, we have humble one-story homes with sagging front porches. There’s certainly no staff directing you this way and that.
But finally, I stand in front of Preston’s door and take a deep breath. It’s time. With a trembling finger, I ring his doorbell and the handsome billionaire sweeps it open before I have time to blink.
“Wow,” he growls in lieu of a greeting, his eyes roving over my sassy curves. “You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. Come in.”
I giggle. “You look great, too.” And it’s true. Preston’s wearing a button-down shirt that highlights his broad shoulders in a deep shade of navy blue. He’s got jeans on, but they’re nice jeans that hang just so from his hips, emphasizing those long legs. His black hair is swept off his forehead and the alpha male smells like pine, sandalwood, and a spicy male musk that has my pulse hammering.
Goodness, I just got here but I’m already ready to fall into his strong arms while mewling and crying his name to the stars. What’s become of the level-headed Carolyn that I used to know? Around this man, she’s disappeared and maybe it’s for the better.
9
Carolyn
The penthouse is unreal and I gasp as I step inside. There are triple height ceilings and enormous glass-paned windows that show off the cityscape below.
“Oh, wow,” I can’t help but whisper, and the billionaire chuckles lightly.
“You like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I nod. He grins.
“This is just the foyer, sweetheart. Come in, because the view is even better up-close.”
I step further into the apartment and my eyes grow as round as saucers because the living room is absolutely enormous. There’s a long, cream-colored couch in the center of the room that looks comfy and inviting, even though it must be made of expensive fabric. Side tables are scattered about, and I recognize an Eames chair in the corner. Preston grins and presses a button.
“The TV comes out of the ceiling,” he says as a flat screen descends from a hidden slit up above. “When you look at model homes, they hardly ever show the TV because it’s unsightly, so we hide ours too.”
I nod before turning to him.
“Did Zora ever live here?”
He nods.
“Just a short bit. But she moved in with her fiancé-now-husband a while ago, so my daughter hasn’t been here in ages. I converted her bedroom into an office, although I hardly ever work from home.” Then, the billionaire directs me to the triple-height windows overlooking the city. Gazing outwards, Manhattan almost looks more like a postcard than an actual city. Skyscrapers light up the night sky, and I can even see a helicopter gliding overhead, its lights a steady glow.
