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I know it would have been faster to explain to her about the photographs, and my father, and that this is just as much to save her as it is for me. But something in me balks at the idea. I don’t want her to know that proximity to me almost ruined her career. I don’t want her to know I don’t have enough power to shield her from my dad’s wrath...at least not yet.
And, most importantly, I don’t want Hazel to feel forced into faking a marriage with me. I want her to choose it—choose me—because I can help give her something she wants. Not because she’s running from something worse.
I don’t let myself think aboutwhyit’s so important that she chooses me of her own free will.
Instead, I give her just enough time to pack what she needs and load her into my car so we can drive to my place.
It’s a handful of miles, and a world of difference.
When I pull up in front of my building and toss the keys to the discrete building valet, Hazel gapes.
“You live in Gramercy Park? I always pictured you living someplace...shinier.”
“Hey. This place is great,” I say defensively. Gramercy Park is a calm oasis in the center of Manhattan. The ornate pre-war buildings cluster around a stately gated park that only nearby residents get keys to.
Some of my earliest memories are of playing with my grandad in that park.
Hazel shakes her head as she lugs her suitcases out of the car. “I’m complimenting you, idiot. I thought you’d live in some soulless skyscraper.”
She wasn’t entirely wrong. I had lived in a soulless skyscraper until my grandparents passed and left their penthouse apartment in an ivy-covered building to me. Originally, I’d planned to sell their place, and invest the proceeds in something practical. But the truth was, their place felt more like home than my skyscraper did.
Not that I’m going to admit any of that to Hazel.
I grab two of the three bags Hazel’s wrestling with. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
The doorman eyes Hazel curiously as he welcomes us in. I rarely bring women home. And when I do, they definitely don’t come with three bags worth of luggage.
Can you really fool your dad and the board?Some voice inside of me mocks.Even your doorman knows you’re not a relationship person.
I ignore the voice and guide Hazel onto the elevator. Everything about this building speaks of old-world wealth. Polished marble. Dark wood. Ornate crown molding.
I like it. I like the way the building has been quietly loved, cared for, and improved for over a hundred years.
But I find myself sneaking glances at Hazel’s face, trying to figure out ifshelikes it.
We step off the elevator on the top floor, and directly into my apartment since I own the whole floor.
“The kitchen’s that way,” I gesture vaguely to the left. “This is the living room.”
Hazel walks across the room to the tall windows that looks down over the park. “I can’t believe you enjoy this view every day,” she says, a note of envy in her voice.
She looks beautiful, silhouetted against the window like that. More than that, she looksright.
I brush off the feeling. “Well, you get to enjoy this view for the next six months,” I remind her. “Come on. I’ll show you the wing with the bedrooms.”
“You have a wholewingfor bedrooms?”
“That’s just what my grandma called it,” I grumble. I stride away, carrying the bags to her bedrooms. “Here’s the better guest room. You can have it.”
But Hazel, as usual, has ignored the thing I actually wanted to talk about in favor of picking up on the thing I wished she wouldn’t. “Wait,” she says. “Was this your grandparents’ place? I read in my research they lived in this neighborhood.”
“Yes,” I said. “Anyway, here’s your bedroom—”
“You could have lived anywhere, in all of Manhattan, and you picked a place that held sentimental value to you,” Hazel says. She beams up at me. “Luke, that’s sosweet.”
“I...it’s not...” I clear my throat. “It was a financial decision. The market was down. Better to live in it for a few years and sell it when the housing market improves.”
“Hmm.” Hazel studies my face, like she’s trying to decide whether or not she believes me.
