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“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. I’m an open book.” He leans against a pillar.
I give him an arched brow.
At least he has the decency to smile and shrug. “Let me amend that. For you, I will try my best to be an open book.”
“How many times have you sat in this living room?”
He glances at the couch. “A few.”
“So three?”
“Give or take, I suppose.”
“How long have you had this place?”
“A few years.”
“So this couch gets your attention once a year?” I run my finger along the buttery smooth fabric.
“On the upside, it’s going to last for a long time.”
“Probably well past its ability to be fashionable,” I tease.
“To be fair, this place is four thousand square feet of living space, and I do share it with my friend Trent, who lives in Jersey, so it’s very possible he’s taken the opportunity to appreciate the view of the city from here.” He crosses the room, drops down on the couch, and pats the seat.
I round the arm and expect to sink into it, but it’s basically like sitting on a pretty rock covered in leather. Jackson shifts around and stretches out his arm, his expression turning into a grimace. “Well.” He taps the edge of the couch. “I think we know why this couch has been sat on so rarely.”
“You obviously didn’t choose it for comfort.”
“I didn’t choose it at all. The only rooms in this place that I had any input in were the kitchen, the music room, my office, and my bedroom.”
“Well then, skip the rest of the tour and show me those.” I stand and wait for Jackson to do the same.
Our next stop is the kitchen, which is a chef’s wet dream.
I run my hand over the formed concrete counters, taking in the sleek lines and beautiful white cabinets, the stainless steel appliances, and the amazing prep space. “It’s too bad we’re only staying the night. I would pretty much give up a pinkie finger to cook a meal in here.”
Jackson leans on the counter, watching me as I circle the room. “There’s always breakfast.”
“How early are we leaving tomorrow?”
“As early as you need. I know you have to be back in a timely manner so you’re able to prepare for your event.”
“I’m usually awake by five. Even with the time change, there’s a good chance I’ll still be up early.”
“I’m the same way. Always up before the sun rises even if I went to bed a few hours before it comes up.”
“I can make Crêpes Suzette. If you have the ingredients, that is.” I want to open the fridge and see what’s inside. If anything at all.
“I’ll make sure we’re stocked and have everything you need.”
I squeal and clap. “I’m so excited! My kitchen at home is just so … basic, and this one is amazing. Can I look in your cupboards and see what all you have? Then I can make a list?”
“You can, but it’s unnecessary since I’ve already sent a request to Aylin, who’s gone to pick everything up.” He holds up his phone before slipping it back into his pocket.
“Just like that, huh?” I snap my fingers.
He smiles. “Just like that.”
“Does everyone say how high when you say jump?”
“You don’t. You said yourself you wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting if I’d told you where it took place.”
“Because it’s halfway across the country.”
“Hence me tricking you into coming.” He arches a brow.
“So you admit that it was all a ruse!”
“I did what I had to do to get you here. I feel no remorse whatsoever, especially not when I’m getting Crêpes Suzette out of the deal.”
I can feel my face heating up. “You’re too much.”
“Still better than not enough.”
It’s the second time he’s said that. There’s something in his tone, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“Anyway.” He raps on the counter twice. “Let me show you the other rooms that actually have a bit of personality to them.” He inclines his head and motions toward the hallway. Even the hallways are wide, the ceilings so high, the clip of my heels echo. He opens a set of heavy wood doors.
Our next stop is the music room. It’s stunning and very different from the rest of the house. Nothing in here is white or gray or navy. The colors are warm and inviting, everything trimmed in luxurious wood finishes. But the real showstopper is the antique, wooden, carved grand piano in the center of the room. “Do you play?”
“When I was younger, yes.” He slips his hands in his pockets, and I get the sense that I’m seeing a part of his world that not many are granted access to.
“My grandmother used to play. I tried to learn but I have butter fingers.” I wiggle them in the air and cross over to the magnificent piece of art. “Is it okay if I touch it?” I’m all breathy, and I can feel the heat climbing up my spine, aware it will invariably make it to my cheeks. I wish I weren’t so easy to fluster. “It looks like an antique,” I add to explain my request for permission.
