“Um, hi,” I mumble, making a show of twisting and turning, making sure I didn’t drop anything, as an excuse to move away from his hand on my back. I’m a little surprised when I notice he already had dropped his hand. Then why could I still feel the heat against me?
“No, really. What’s in that thing?” he says, pointing to the folder gripped in my hand.
“It’s my portfolio. And some notes. You didn’t really tell me what you were looking for, so I don’t have a lot of ideas yet.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here. I was just coming back from a meeting. Good timing, you can come up with me.” He gestures his head towards the building’s entrance, and for a moment I resent him. How can he be acting so normally? Why isn’t this harder for him?
Like it’s hard for you? my brain taunts me. Every moment in his presence right now, is like walking on nails. I feel like I have to remind myself to do the most basic of things. Breathe, blink, stand, breathe again. And yet it seems like this is nothing to him.
Maybe it is.
I can’t tell you if that makes me feel better or worse.
I follow him as the doorman holds open the door for us, almost banging into him when he stops to say something to the doorman that makes him throw his head back with laughter. The doorman gives me a wink as I pass him and I return it with a weak smile.
The lobby is small and quiet. My shoes click against the marble floor as we stand waiting for the elevator.
“What floor are you on?” I ask, just to break the ice.
“31,” he says, just as the elevator arrives, waving his key fob over the scanner.
” And how many floors in this building?”
“31.”
“So, the penthouse.”
“We don’t call it that,” he retorts, with a shrug.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not rich, elitist, show-offy snobs.”
“Touche.”
The elevator stops and I hold my breath as the doors open, not quite sure what to expect. This is his home.
Xavier steps out and turns when he notices I haven’t followed.
“Well, are you coming?”
“I don’t know, yet.”
He looks amused. “Well, I don’t know if you know this about elevators, but they go down as well as up, and if you don’t get off, you’re not going to be able to come back up again without me.”
Right on cue the doors start to close and I step out, just before they meet in the middle behind me.
“Come on,” he says, with a head tilt. “Sorry about the mess.” I follow him through the entrance way into the main area of his apartment.
I gasp.
As an interior designer I’ve seen a lot of homes. Small, medium, large and gargantuan. Some could never be made beautiful, even with the help of some styling, and some are stunning examples of architecture, all on their own.
This is an example of the latter.
It’s one big open space. A millionaire’s loft. Floor to ceiling windows on all four sides, almost uninterrupted by the bare minimum of walls. Thick white beams hold up the ceiling, strong but elegant. Light streams though the open glass, filling every inch of the space with light. The apartment is completely sparse, but there’s a sense of innate warmth.
I spot a king size floor level bed in the far corner of the apartment, beside it a stack of books. I can’t help but wonder if he’s still reading law textbooks. Scanning the empty space for more furniture, all I find is a leather recliner facing the window and beside it a stocked drinks trolley. I walk over to the kitchen area in the middle of the floor. It’s compact and looks unused. I wonder how much time he spends here.
If I had walked into a stranger’s apartment and had to sum him up from what I see, I would profile him as three things: bachelor, workaholic, lonely.
And I have to remind myself, Xavier might as well be a stranger to me.
“So, what do you think?” he says, right beside me. And I jump, not realizing how immersed I was in his living space.
I take a breath before answering.
“Eh, I’ve seen worse. Probably should do something about the clutter.”
He grins at me, and I try not to stop my stomach from doing a complete somersault. I don’t know if he worked on it, but he seems to have perfected a wolfish grin. I bet women go crazy for it. A flash of white-hot jealousy rips through me, and I fake a cough to turn away, in case he can see it in my eyes.
“So, um, how long have you lived here?”
“Just over two years.”
“And you’re getting furniture at the rate of one piece a year?”
“Yeah, I’m due for another piece soon. Maybe a key hook or something.”
“That’s not furniture, Xavier.”
“Don’t be a snob, Malynda,” he says, emphasizing my name. I’m still getting used to hearing it. I’m still getting used to him.
“Hey, stop calling me a snob, I’m not the one living in a penthouse.”
Now it’s his turn to say it, “Touche.”
I poke my tongue out at him. It seems I’ve reverted back to being a teenager in his presence.
“Anyway, I live here for free,” he shrugs.
“Free? Why?”
“Well, my landlord doesn’t charge me any rent.”
“Who’s your landlord?”
“Me,” he says and there’s that grin again. “Kaine and I have a side real estate venture. This was the second building we bought together. I was going to rent out this floor as well, but I fell in love with it, so I took it. Perks of owning it, I guess.”
“What was the first?”
He doesn’t answer for a while, walking over to the window and laying a hand on the glass. “The first was the house I grew up in,” he finally answers, his voice low, almost inaudible, as he stares at the cityscape spread out in front of him.
I don’t say anything. It almost feels like intruding.
Taking a few steps back, leaving him with his thoughts, I take a walk around his apartment again, taking mental notes of what I think I can suggest. I try to separate my personal feelings and try to go through the motions as if it’s any other client, and any other job.
There’s obviously a reason he’s left the place like it is for two years, and I want to be sensitive to that, while still making it into a functional home for him, a place he wants to return to every night.