AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Men can be so unimaginative sometimes.” She nods at me and, turning away, finishes descending the steps.
The valet opens the door for her, and she gets in from the side closest to the steps. As Mila kindly pointed out, this is an original British model with a left-hand drive.
As Blake settles in the driver’s seat, the slit of her dress rides sinfully high, making my mouth go dry.
She pauses a second with her hand on the car door, saying, “Goodnight, Mr. Mercer.”
Her lips still curved in a small smile, she closes the door, puts the car into gear, and speeds away into the night.
I shove my hands into my pockets and roll back on my heels as I watch the car zoom through the streets until Blake turns a corner and disappears from sight.
Lost the car.
Not gonna lose the woman.
10
GABRIEL
Sunday brunch at my parents’ house is as inevitable as fireworks on the fourth of July, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, or sparkly lights during the holidays.
Unless equipped with a valid medical excuse, my brother and I are expected to attend. Fifty-two weeks a year—no justifications accepted when on Manhattan soil.
So after a night spent tossing, tormented by images of blue eyes, red lips, and silver cars, I drag my sorry ass to my parents’ Upper East Side penthouse.
I’d walk, except the day is already sticky at ten in the morning and the last thing I need is to arrive to brunch looking like a zombie and smelling like a locker room. Nothing I can do about the zombie part. But at least I can make sure I’m not a sweaty mess.
When I got home last night, I made the mistake of opening Instagram before going to bed, and I don’t know how Blake managed it, if she has a team working round the clock on her social media, but her profile already featured a post with multiple photos of her on the red carpet plus a few of when she accepted the award, a video story of her entrance, and most disconcerting of all, a reel where some sort of grand angle camera zoomed in on her in slow motion as Blake was smiling with a flirtatious look. Then she twirled on herself, her silky hair fanning in a curtain around her and, when she landed back from the turn, she blew a kiss to the camera. The caption read #Glambot.
Not sure what a glambot is, but that kiss haunted me all night. Hence the zombie status.
I take the Porsche, and when I pull up in front of my parents’ building I don’t even have to open the door because the building’s valet is already there, ready to collect the keys. I step out and we swap places as he gets in the driver’s seat.
The doorman, Darryl, is also waiting to greet me. The man is an institution. He knows each family living in the building better than even their members know each other and has been working here since before I was born.
“Morning, Mr. Mercer.” He welcomes me with a slight bow. “Your brother is already upstairs.”
I check my watch. A zombie and five minutes late.
“Thank you, Darryl.”
The doorman closes the car door behind me and knocks on the hood, letting the valet know he can go search for parking.
Before I can make it to the main entrance, Darryl is already there, holding the front door open for me.
“Have a nice brunch, Mr. Mercer.”
I take in his white-gloved hands and inwardly cringe as a comment Blake made last night grates on me. “…for the longest time, so many doors stayed closed to me, and I had to break them open kicking and screaming. While you probably found a butler in white gloves welcoming you and offering you a cup of champagne for your trouble…”
At least she got the champagne part wrong.
The elevator ride to the top floor seems at the same time too long and too short. What Blake told me last night about my dad supposedly pulling strings to get my start-up financed is the flip side of the coin that kept me awake all night. I need to ask him; I’m eager to. But I can’t pretend I’m not afraid of the answer he might give me.
The elevator doors open straight into my parents’ apartment, which occupies the entire floor. As soon as they swish open, I find a server on the other side in a black uniform, holding a silver tray with a single champagne cup on it.
“Apéritif, Mr. Mercer?”
Oh, for crying out loud.
