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For my thirty-third birthday he gifted me a cottage in Vail.
The word cottage is a joke. It has an infinity pool and stunning panoramic views. Nestled on top of its own little mountain, it’s worth a cool four million dollars.
I could sell some of the properties, of course. But I don’t. They have sentimental value. Some, like the condo in Reykjavík and the villa on the Amalfi coast, I rent out using a management service. Others, like the cottage, I keep for personal use.
But my loft in New York City came from a different place.
I inherited it when I was nine years old.
My great-aunt was what they called an Original. She was vivacious and unpredictable. I admired her from the time I was born. In a family that valued appearances and morality, she was a breath of fresh air. I would run through her penthouse in Tribeca whenever we visited. Mom would admonish me to be careful. “Don’t break the art,” she said, giving a sideways glance to a white ceramic statue of nymphs cavorting through reeds. It took pride of place beneath a chandelier made of origami cranes. Priceless oriental art nestled among handmade and thrift shop finds. Nothing was labeled. Much of it was strange. And everything was interesting.
When she passed away of cancer, I was heartbroken.
Her loft became my haven.
I maintain my old bedroom in my parents’ house. There’s even a designated suite for me in Leo’s mansion, but this has been my true home since I was a child. It’s where I spend most of my time, even where I do most of my work. The fund has official space within Morelli Holdings, but it’s easier and less intimidating for people to meet with me at home.
Today that includes a pitch from a charity that helps LGBTQ+ youth who are in crisis. Of course the cause is worthy. That’s how they got an appointment with me. My job is to make sure they have the structures in place to provide care. They’ve come with a PowerPoint and a glossy printed plan for how they can spend five million dollars in the next three years.
I narrow my eyes at the final estimates. “What about infrastructure costs?”
The director of the charity frowns down at her chart. “I’m sure that’s covered in the startup analysis. Or maybe somewhere else.”
“I want to see confirmation of that. And a breakdown of that section.”
“Of course, Ms. Morelli. Thank you so much for the opportunity. We’re so grateful for the chance to speak with you. We hope you’ll consider us.”
I stand and shake hands with her before escorting her out.
My phone rings. Half my mind is still on the pitch I just saw. It’s a great cause, but I saw the panic in the director’s eyes. They may not have included infrastructure. Which might make the entire budget unworkable. Not to mention, it illustrates that they aren’t ready for a donation of that size. Times like this break my heart, but we won’t turn them down entirely. Instead I’ll arrange a smaller donation, something manageable for them.
Which also means we’ll be able to help more charities.
I don’t give a fuck if Morelli Holdings only donates so that they’ll get a tax write-off. We do real good in the world at the fund.
My mind is still on the projections when my phone rings. “Hello?”
“Ms. Morelli,” comes a smooth voice over the phone.
I feel my cheeks grow warm. “Mr. Hughes.”
“It occurred to me this morning that we had skipped a few steps. An underground casino is all well and good, but what happened to taking a woman out to dinner?”
“Is that an invitation?”
A low laugh answers me. “Is that a yes?”
It’s been a long time since I’ve flirted like this. And the last time was so furtive, tinged with guilt and shame and eventually heartache, that it bore little resemblance to this.
“I thought you might be tired of me,” I say lightly.
“Never. And besides, if we’re going to pull off this fake relationship, we need to be believable. We can cover the basics tonight, like that movie Green Card.”
“My favorite color is a deep, emerald green.”
“I sleep on the left side of the bed.”
“There’s an old scar on my left knee from when I fell out of a tree. My father grounded Leo for a month for making that rope ladder.”
