We spend the next thirty minutes talking about safer topics. Movies, music, travel, food, books. He knows something about everything. He’s visited every city I’ve ever wanted to visit, and describes them in such detail, I can picture them as if I’ve been there. I’m so caught up in our conversation, I forget to ask him where we’re going, but then we turn off Sunset Boulevard onto Beverly Glen.
“Are there restaurants up here? I thought this area was all residential.”
He smiles. “The best restaurant in LA is at the top of the hill. It’s got an incredible view of the Valley on one side and the Santa Monica Bay on the other.”
We follow the winding road up the hill, every house we pass getting larger. Eventually, the only thing I see of them are rooftops set far back behind gates. Then we pull up to an enormous stone guard gate. We slow, Cole lifts his chin to the uniformed guard who appears at the window, and we pass through.
The same thing happens at another guard gate fifty feet in.
Wherever we’re going, it must be exclusive. The property up here is among the most expensive in all of Los Angeles, and judging by the size of the homes we’re now passing, they’re filled with celebrities and the uber-rich.
We stop in a driveway flanked on either side by huge palm trees and stone statues of lions. The black iron gate is massive, spanning the width of the driveway and continuing along the street on either side. I can’t see what’s beyond the gate because of all the trees and shrubs lining it, but then it opens and we drive through, revealing the building beyond.
Estate, rather.
It’s a home, an impossibly beautiful Italianate style mansion awash in soft light from landscape lighting hidden among lush greenery.
“Cole?”
“Hmm?”
“This isn’t a restaurant.”
His laugh is soft and pleased. “Ah, that sharp intellect of yours, Ms. Sanders.”
We pull through the gates and drive into a large motor court with a central fountain. He parks the car in front of an arched stone entryway, kills the engine, then turns to me.
“I hope you like Asian fusion food. Wolfgang made his famous Shanghai lobster for us.”
“Wolfgang? As in Puck?”
He winks at me. “Hope you’re hungry.” He exits the car and comes around to my side, opening the door and waiting as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
Then he takes my hand and leads me inside his home.
Shay
The place is insane.
The foyer has triple-vaulted ceilings, walls of windows that showcase incredible canyon and city views, and crown-like Baccarat chandeliers. A pair of curved limestone staircases rise elegantly to the second floor. The white marble floor gleams.
Holding my hand, Cole leads me through the entrance into the main living area, which is even more grand. Acres of dark hardwood floors are offset by white furniture and walls hung with oil paintings. A fantastical lounge has a ceiling covered in life-like faux flowers and a chandelier resembling an explosion of butterflies. There’s a bar room, a library, a formal dining room, a screening room, and a wine cellar, and that’s just the first floor.
As I stand in wide-eyed wonder gazing through the windows at the huge backyard pool surrounded by a lounge area with harlequin pattern pavers inset with squares of grass, Cole squeezes my hand.
“What do you think?”
“It’s like a fairytale castle. Who else lives here with you?”
“Nobody.”
I turn and look at him. In the warm ambient lighting, his features are softer. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his demeanor is softer too, as if by merely walking through the front door of his home, he shed a few of his hard layers.
“You live here alone? This place must be like ten thousand square feet.”
“Fifteen. On six acres.” He turns and gazes out the windows into the night. “I wish it were twenty, but I can’t find any parcels that big in the city. There’s a place in Montecito that’s two hundred and thirty acres that I’d love to buy, but the owner won’t sell.”
I furrow my brow in confusion. “Why do you want that much space?”
“Same reason wild animals need a lot of space.”
“To roam?”
“So they don’t have to bump into each other.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
He answers after a contemplative moment, his voice soft. “All the time.”
I remember what Simone said the day I started work and slipped and called him Mr. Dark and Stormy. She said everyone at the office called him the Grinch, but thing about the Grinch was that his heart wasn’t too small. He was just unbearably lonely.