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“Yes, Miss Thesaurus, I suppose they do.”
“But where are the rooms where youactuallylive?”
“They’re all here.”
She shakes her head. “No, where do you take off your clothes at night, where do you eat your take-out, where do you watch TV?”
I take her hand. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
We walk through the sitting room and into the butler’s corridor. From there it’s a quick step into the kitchen. I point at the kitchen table. “For eating meals.”
She lets go of my hand and heads straight for the fridge.
“Hungry?” I ask.
She opens it and then gives a wide smile. “No. Just curious.”
I lean against the kitchen counter. “Found anything interesting?”
“No,” she says, “nothing at all, which is the funny part. Your fridge looks like mine.”
“Empty?”
“Yes.”
“I guess we’re not chefs.”
“No,” she says, and shakes her head. “I’ve never liked cooking. Oh, what’s in there?”
She walks into the adjoining living room. It’s small, but it has a couch, a few bookcases, and a TV. “This is where you relax?”
“Some nights, yes.”
She sits down on the couch and rests her hand on a pillow. Having her here feels excitingly exposing. Her beauty and smile fills up the well-used space.
“How many people have lived here?”
“On this particular couch? None. I got it when I moved in.”
“Good to know,” she says, and pats the dark blue fabric. “But in the apartment?”
“Three generations, give or take. My great-grandfather died before the building was fully built and my grandfather took over at nineteen. But I don’t have an exact number of all the family members who have passed in and out.”
“Don’t you want a place that’s just yours?”
I sit down next to her. The eyes that gaze back at mine are curious, and open, and I don’t think anyone has asked me that question in years.
“It works well for now. It keeps me close to the business, and to my employees.”
Her mouth curves into a smile. “Yes, that would be your answer. But I’ve heard people say it’s important to separate work and life. Balance, I think it’s called.”
Our legs touch, hers bare beneath a knee-length silk skirt. “You saying something over there, workaholic?”
She chuckles. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t throw rocks in glass houses.”
“A little pebble is okay, I suppose, but no more.”
She pretends to lock her mouth shut. “I’m done.”
