Brandon, my driver, smiles warmly with a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Miles.”
I smile and shake his hand. “Hello, Brandon. It’s good to see you.”
He pops the trunk, and I put my backpack in and get into the back seat.
He pulls out into the traffic, and I look around my hometown in awe. It’s like I’m seeing it for the first time.
So busy.
Yellow cabs are everywhere, and I smile as I feel my equilibrium return.
“Are we picking anyone up, sir?” Brandon asks.
I frown. Do we normally pick people up? I guess we do.
“No, not tonight.”
I sit quietly in the back as we drive through New York. I glance at the time on my phone. It would be 1:00 a.m. in Spain.
I should call Hayden and tell her that I landed safely . . . and then say what?
I imagine how the conversation would go, and I exhale heavily.
I’m not in the mood for the third degree. I stuff my phone back in my pocket.
Fifteen minutes later we pull up in front of my building. “Home sweet home.” Brandon smiles.
“Yes.” I smile. “I’ve missed this place.”
“I’ll carry your bag up for you, sir,” he offers.
“No. I’ve got it, thanks.” I sling the huge backpack over my shoulder.
“What time will you be heading out, Mr. Miles?”
I frown. That’s right . . . I do go out every night when I’m here.
“I’m staying in tonight. Go home. Have the night off.”
Brandon’s eyebrows flick up as if he’s surprised.
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
He frowns.
I smile and make my way into the foyer.
The concierge staff all run when they see me with my heavy bag. “Mr. Miles, it’s good to see you, sir. Let us take that.”
“I’m fine,” I reply. Why are they all running?
I look around. Everything is marble and over-the-top luxurious. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers are everywhere, and the staff are all in black suits. The floor is so highly polished it looks like a mirror.
I frown. Was it always this luxurious? Did I just never notice it before?
Hmm . . .
I get into the elevator, and Harold, its operator, is standing quietly. “Hello, Mr. Miles.” He smiles.
“Hello, Harold.” I turn to face the front. “Have you had a good day?” I ask him.
“I have, sir.” He smiles. “Have you?”
I shrug. “It was okay,” I lie. I had the shittiest day of all time.
We continue to ride up to my penthouse, and a thought crosses my mind. Does he just stand in the elevator all night, waiting to take people up to their floors?
“How long have you worked in the elevator, Harold?”
“Seventeen years, sir.”
I stare at him.
He smiles broadly. “And tonight was the first time you have ever called me by my name.”
I blink. What?
The doors ping as we get to my floor. They open, and I stare at him, horrified.
“Have a wonderful night, sir.”
“You too,” I reply softly, taken aback. Surely that can’t be right, although deep down I know that it is.