She walks over to the window and peers down at the road way below. “How high are we?”
“Sixty floors.”
She frowns and steps back from the window as if frightened.
“I’ll give you the tour,” I say. “Living area.” I gesture to the room we’re standing in. I walk down to the other end of the penthouse. “This is the kitchen.” I open the invisible door. “Wine cellar downstairs.”
Her eyes are wide as she looks around.
“Down this end are four bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, and the laundry room. Gymnasium.” I walk her down the large hallway, and she peers in at all the rooms. I gesture up the stairs. “This way.” I take the stairs, and she follows me in silence as she looks around.
“Up here we have another living area, bedrooms, and another living area or theater room.” She looks around, still choosing to remain silent.
“The master bedroom is down here.” I open the double doors to my bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls have 180-degree views over New York.
Hayden’s mouth falls open, and she makes an audible gasp.
I smile proudly.
This is the most impressive bedroom of all time, if I do say so myself.
Hope fills me.
“Look.” I open the walk-in wardrobe doors in a rush. “This will be your wardrobe here.” She peers in at the huge empty room. “We can fit it out however you like.”
“And look at this, babe.” I lead her into the bathroom. “Look at the bathtub.” I smile. “It’s a spa. We can spend hours in there. You love baths,” I remind her.
She nods and steps back, still processing.
I open my wardrobe door. “This is my wardrobe.”
She peers in, and then a frown crosses her face, and she walks past me into the wardrobe. I hold my breath as I watch her look over my three bays of expensive suits. Her hand runs over the shoes neatly lined up. Her eyes rise to the floor-to-ceiling tie rack I have for my ties. She goes to the set of drawers that is freestanding in the middle.
Don’t open the . . .
Too late. She opens the top drawer and peers in at my designer watch collection, displayed in a glass cabinet.
She swiftly closes the drawer and walks past me out of the wardrobe.
Huh?
What the hell does that mean?
I wait for a moment and walk out to find her staring out the window over the city.
“Are you going to say something?” I ask.
“It’s beautiful.” She forces a smile.
She has more to say.
“And?”
“What . . .” She pauses as if searching for the right words.
I wait.
“What do you do at Miles Media?”
“I’m the head of marketing.”
She frowns as she stares at me. I can see her mind running a million miles per minute. “Where is your office?”
I roll my lips. Here we go . . . “London.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You live in London?”
“Yes.”
“London.” She gasps. “You live in fucking London?”
“I do.”
“And when were you going to tell me this?” She gasps, affronted.