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“There, there,” he murmurs as he gently rubs my back. “You’re meant to be happy about this, sweetheart, not sobbing your eyes out.”
“Connor, you overwhelm me.”
He chuckles. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
Laughing through my tears, I swat his shoulder. “It’s a compliment, you idiot.”
“All right, then.” He steps back and holds me at arm’s length. Then he brushes the tears from my cheeks. “Kennedy, do you comprehend how much you mean to me?”
Sniffling, I nod. “I’m starting to.”
“I can’t take back the horrible things my grandfather said to you, but I can promise you one thing. There is no person on earth who is more important to me than you are. I’m as smitten with you today as I was the day we met. Actually, more so.”
“I—”
He presses his index finger against my lips. “Don’t say anything. At least not right now when you’re so emotional. We’ll talk later, all right? How about we return to your flat so you can share the good news with your neighbors?”
We walk the rest of the way to my home in silence. My mind is racing as it tries to comprehend what he’s done and how much this must have cost him. How much do apartment buildings in Brooklyn go for? It has to be in the millions.
As soon as we reach my building, we start on the first floor and work our way up, one apartment at a time, floor by floor.
First, I knock on the Andersons’ door. Mr. Anderson opens it, dressed in his flannel pajamas. He looks worried, like he’s afraid I’ve come to tell him the building’s on fire. It’s only nine-thirty, but the older folks tend to turn in early. But this can’t wait. They’ll sleep better tonight knowing their home is safe.
I hold up the first page to the deed.
He squints as he tries to read the words without his wire-rimmed glasses. “What’s that?”
Connor jumps in, simplifying things greatly. “It means Kennedy owns this apartment building now. No more sale. No more moving. Your home is safe for as long as you want it.”
Mr. Anderson’s eyes widen. “Jill, come here!”
His wife, a petite former kindergarten teacher with braided white hair, rushes up to him. “What’s the matter, Carl?”
Connor repeats his blunt explanation, and Mrs. Anderson bursts into tears.
The reactions we get from the rest of the residents are very similar. We tell all of the first-floor residents, then we climb the stairs to my floor.
We knock on Ms. Talisman’s door first and give her the good news. She drags Connor into her arms and squeezes the breath out of him.
Mrs. P has pretty much the same reaction, only she squeezes the daylights out of me instead.
Leaving my two favorite neighbors in happy tears, we tell the rest of the tenants in the building. By the time we make it back to my apartment, it’s nearly eleven o’clock, and I’m worn out.
“Why don’t you change into something more comfortable?” Connor suggests. “We can relax and have a celebratory drink.”
“Is that a euphemism? Changing into something more comfortable?”
He grins. “No. I just figure your feet are killing you after wearing those heels so long.” He gently nudges me away from the kitchen nook. “Go on. Get comfortable.”
Shaking my head, and fighting a grin, I grab my PJs and head to the bathroom to change and freshen up. Connor’s up to something, I can tell. I can’t imagine what he’s got up his sleeve now.
Chapter 25
Connor Murphy
While Kennedy’s changing, I change, too. I meant it when I said we should be comfortable. I want to remind her of the time we spent living together in London, when we’d come home after a long day of work and unwind together, relax, drink some wine, and perhaps watch a little Netflix and chill.
Only this time, we’re upgrading from wine. I pull a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which I picked up earlier today at a wine shop and stashed here in her flat. I grab the ice bucket sitting on top of her fridge, fill it with cubes I find in her freezer, and stick the bottle in to chill. I locate two wine glasses, rinse them off because they’re dusty—doesn’t look like she drinks much—and set them on the little dining table. I find a cream-colored candle on her bookcase—it smells like vanilla—and light it using a pack of matches I find in a kitchen drawer. Standing back, I survey my handiwork—it could be better, but this is all I have to work with on short notice.
