The hallway has huge ceilings, marble flooring, and artwork strategically placed on the walls.
Everything flows together. A mix of country meets urban.
It’s definitely the work of a professional interior designer.
There isn’t a speck of dust.
The stark contrast in our residential abodes highlights just how far apart our worlds are. I’m reminded of who he is and who I’m not.
I can’t believe I let him into my Kentish Town flatshare with charity shop furniture and wine bottle candle holders. He must have thought it was filthy. We have mice, for fuck sake.
Why on earth does he want me here? He could have any type of professional model he wanted. Leggy, skinny, curvy, blond, brown, redhead…
If it’s a conversation he wants, I can’t talk about interior design, what race car to buy, or how hard life is for a CEO.
“You can go in, you know.” His deep Scottish drawl whispers in my ear behind me, and I jump.
I bet Jen and his other ladies don’t stand in the doorway like quivering wrecks.
“It must be a bitch to heat,” I say as I take off my sneakers, realising they are covered in dirt.
He shrugs. “There’s underfloor heating in most of the rooms I can control. But the best thing is the two real turf fires. Nothing beats the smell of a real turf fire. I’ll give you a tour.” He follows me in and gently peels off my jacket, his hand grazing my bare arm.
“You’re nervous?” He arches his eyebrows, surveying me.
I chew on my lips as he brushes a lock of hair away from my face. In my bare feet, I have to strain to look up at him.
“A little,” I admit.
“This is a first,” His voice turns teasing. “I’ve never seen you nervous.”
His hand goes under my chin to drag my gaze up from the floor. “If it helps, you make me nervous too.”
“I doubt that,” I reply breathlessly. “Why would I make you nervous?”
“Are you kidding?” He grins down at me. “You’re fucking terrifying. You take one look at me, and I’m incapable of rational thinking.”
I fight hard to prevent the goofy grin from escaping across my face. Inside, my heart is doing the bongo against my chest.
“Come on, I’ll get you a glass of wine.” He releases me and pads down the hallway. I follow him into a kitchen/breakfast room with beautiful exposed brick walls and more state-of-the-art appliances than NASA. I bet only his cleaner knows how to use half of them.
“I’ve decanted a bottle of Pinot Noir. Does that sound ok?” He asks, bending down to get a wine glass from the cupboard, providing me with a view of that glorious backside.
“Sure,” I reply, with fake confidence, cringing at the memory of asking him if he wanted a drink in my flat.
If he knew the crap my flatshare drank at this hour on a Saturday morning, he wouldn’t ask me if I was concerned about whether my wine was decanted.
He hands me the glass.
“You live here alone?” I ask. I can’t imagine living somewhere this size by myself. So far in my 28 years of life on earth, I am yet to experience living alone.
“Cheers.” He lifts his glass to mine, and he anchors his attention back to me. “Yes. Just me.”
My eyes widened. “How many bedrooms?”
“Five bedrooms, two receptions rooms”. He responds in amusement. “You were expecting me to live in some glass box in the middle of the sky in central London?”
“With a swimming pool and strippers pole,” I smirk. “I didn’t imagine suburbia.”
“Don’t you get lonely here?” I ask. Then I roll my eyes. “I expect you have a lot of company.”
He shoots me a warning look. “I’ve lived alone since my marriage broke down. Over a decade now.”
He shrugs. “I’m used to it. Karl sometimes stays here when he’s in town.” My brows shoot up. Is Karl here?
“Tonight, it’s just us.”
He smiles at me suggestively, and a current of excitement flows through me. Tonight he’s mine, all mine.
“Come, I’ll give you a tour.”
He takes my hand and directs me from room to room, explaining each room’s quirks and history.
It’s minimalist but classic and stylish, like a show home. His cleaner must come every day.
“I can’t believe I let you into my flat,” I mutter, following behind him. “Into my squalor of a bedroom. How embarrassing.”
He stops at the foot of the grand staircase, raising a brow in amusement. “I’m delighted to see the inside of your bedroom. I wasn’t there for the decor.”
He nods for me to advance up the stairs. “I happen to like your bedroom. It’s creative. It reflects your personality.”
“Gee, thanks.” I hit back sarcastically. “It’s an attic room with a skylight for a window and furniture sourced from the local charity shops. What does that say about my personality?”
I walk up the stairs feeling uncharacteristically out of breath. Maybe it’s because he is tailing me with a full view of my backside. Or the fact that there is one crucial room I haven’t seen yet.
“How long have you lived here?” I babble as we reach the top of the stairs.
“Five years, give or take,” he says, leading me along the top hallway.
“I bet you weren’t living in an attic room when you were my age.”
“No. I was living in the obnoxious penthouse apartment in Kensington. Exactly as you imagined.” His deep brown eyes lock onto mine. “Tristan would pay you an apartment in a heartbeat, Charlie. Let him. You can live somewhere without mice, for god’s sake.”
“Is that what you think of me?” Bitterness fills my mouth. If I had a pound every time, someone asked me that I’d be as rich as Tristan. “I’m useless without Tristan’s money?”