Chapter 19 Amelia
Amelia
Melvin picks me up and drives me to one of the most expensive buildings in Manhattan. I knew that Crawford must live somewhere impressive, but I had no idea the level of wealth he has until I see his apartment.
Melvin doesn’t just drop me off and leave me, either. He escorts me through the beautiful lobby to the elevators, simply telling me to select “the top floor” as he leaves me to go up alone.
I follow his instructions, only realizing halfway up that I don’t know the number of Crawford’s apartment.
I shouldn’t have worried, however.
As the elevator dings and the doors open, I see Crawford himself standing opposite me in a white button-down shirt tucked into jeans. The elevator has taken me directly to the entrance hall of his apartment.
I wasn’t expecting to see him so quickly, thinking that I’d have some time to compose myself and I step out feeling incredibly self-conscious.
I’ve worn one of the wrap dresses that Eleanor picked for me. It’s summery in style and not really suitable for the weather, but I know my tits look perky in it, so I decided it would be the best option for tonight.
Crawford walks toward me, with a soft smile on his face.
“Hello,” he says as I step out of the elevator. I immediately jump back a foot as I hear a high-pitched cawing sound, like a baby crying, but several octaves lower.
“Gerald, be quiet,” Crawford snaps, and I looks to my left at the beautiful white peacock that struts into view from a side door. “My apologies. He gets upset with new visitors.”
I can’t hold back a laugh. “You have a peacock?”
“I do. And a cat. Alexis. She’s somewhere being a menace, I have no doubt.”
His voice is calm, and it’s a good look on him. He’s far more relaxed here, in his space, away from the office. He’s barefoot, as usual, but I keep my shoes on, knowing the heels make my legs look good.
The apartment is breathtaking. I’m only in the entrance hall, and it’s bigger than my entire house. It has a similar style to Crawford’s office. A lot of white and cream, with marble gleaming beneath my feet.
The marble stretches away into a living room beyond, where I can just see the edge of a sunken couch.
I’m about to move toward it when Crawford puts a hand on my shoulder, and I stop, looking up at him.
“If you go in there and change your mind, you tell me, and Melvin takes you home. The same rules apply as always. You don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
I nod.
“Words, Amelia.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You look stunning by the way; I like what you’ve done with your hair.” He frowns, as if he didn’t mean to say that, and I smile.
“I need a haircut,” I say casually. “I might chop it all off.”
I suck in a breath as he puts a hand into it, taking a commanding hold as I look up at him, frozen in place.
“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, plastering himself against me, his lips half an inch from my own. Then, just as fast, he lets me go and walks away into the main room.
I enter with a feeling of intense uneasiness. I’ve seen Ambrose Georgiou for thirty seconds, if that. He’s very good-looking but also seems like a player to me. If Crawford wants to share me, I don’t know how I feel about that, and I’m hoping ‘watching’ means only watching.
As I walk into the room, I stop, staring. We are dozens of stories up above the city. Central Park is stretched out beneath us, the lights all around it like tiny fireflies in the night.
The living room features an open-plan kitchen at the far end, which is enormous, complete with a huge island in the center.
The kitchen occupies a significant portion of the far wall, featuring beautiful bronze barstools beside the island. Then, as you move through, there’s the sunken couch and a spiral staircase that rises to the floors above.
I only realize I’ve been standing for too long with my mouth open when Crawford chuckles behind me.
“You approve?” he asks, and for a second, it sounds as if my opinion really matters to him.
“It’s stunning,” I say.
“Then it suits you perfectly,” comes a low drawl from the couch, and I turn to see Ambrose lounging there with a glass of wine. He doesn’t approach me, which I appreciate; he just runs his eyes over me.
On anyone else, the look might be lecherous, but he seems more intrigued than anything, glancing between me and Crawford with interest.
Ambrose rises, stepping up onto the same level as us, but doesn’t come any closer.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Amelia.”
“Likewise,” I say automatically. But I’m unsure what to make of him. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with a white collar and a huge gold watch.
His style is very different from Crawford's. Ambrose seems more flamboyant, but in an understated way.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Crawford asks.
“Uh, maybe a small one.”
“Red?”
“Thank you.”
I hover, unsure where he expects me to go until Ambrose indicates I should sit in the little circle of the couch. It strikes me as an old-fashioned feature, more like a love seat from the 1970s, but it suits the space and draws the eye.
This place must have cost millions.
I take a seat. Ambrose is very still nearby, watching until I’m settled, and then he sits on the opposite side to me. Something about that reassures me. They’re both being very careful to make me feel settled, which I wasn’t expecting.
Crawford comes to sit between us after handing me my glass of wine.
“Did Melvin behave himself?” he asks me. “He has taken a shine to you, I think, and the man can talk your ear off if you let him.”
“Oh, I didn’t mind. He was telling me about a mafia boss he drove around New York for a few years. It was very entertaining.”
Ambrose snorts into his wine, and Crawford grins. “Don’t believe a word that man says. He’s full of shit.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” I joke.
“Please do, I tell him all the time.”
I sip my wine, looking between the two of them curiously. I can’t work out their relationship, but Crawford seems extremely relaxed.
“How long did it take you to get here?” Ambrose asks me. “Sorry to drag you out so late.”
I shrug. “Not too long. The traffic wasn’t bad at all.”
Well played, Amelia. Let’s talk about the weather next.
“Lucas says you live in Brooklyn?”
“I do.”
“Do you live there alone?”
I hesitate for a second and then shake my head. “I live with my sister.”
Crawford is watching me now. He hasn’t drunk any of his wine, resting it on his knee, his gaze laser-focused on me.
“Is she close to you in age?” Ambrose asks.
“She’s nineteen. She’s much cleverer and more sensible than me, though, so she keeps me in line,” I say lightly, and both men smile.
There’s a pitiful little mew from behind me as a fluffy white cat leaps onto the couch.
Crawford stiffens as the cat approaches me, sniffing my hair, and then climbing down over my shoulder and curling up in my lap. I stroke her idly. I love cats and always feel very privileged if one decides to be my friend.
“Jesus Christ.” I look up, and Ambrose is staring at me. “What the hell? That heathen hates everyone!”
“Don’t call her a heathen,” Crawford says, scowling at him. “She’s just picky.”
I scratch her behind her ears, and she starts purring.
“You’re a cat whisperer,” Crawford says, with a fond little smile as he looks at Alexis.
“Maybe she just likes women,” I hedge, and Ambrose laughs.
“Not if Megan is anything to go by.”
I glance up at Crawford, who is glaring daggers at Ambrose, but the other man looks entirely unapologetic.
“She clearly has good taste,” he says, tipping his glass to me.
I chuckle, and Alexis repositions herself, rubbing against my hand.
“She’s gorgeous, and she’s white, which means she would go very well in your office,” I murmur, and Crawford grins.
“Can you imagine her at work? I’d never get anything done.”
“You might confuse her for a cushion if she sat for too long on your couch.”
“Hah! Yes, I’m not sure she’d appreciate that.”
Ambrose is watching us, a little frown on his face as he looks at Crawford. Then he turns back to me.
“So, when you’re not at work, what do you like to do with your free time?” he asks, stretching out his long legs toward the central table.
“Uh, I like to paint.”
Crawford leans back too, an arm over the couch. “Really? What do you paint?”
“Well, lots of things really. But I do paint my sister a lot. She hates it. I have quite an abstract style sometimes, and last time she said I made her look like a Picasso.”
They both laugh.
“What do you like to paint?” Ambrose presses.
“I do enjoy portraits, but they’re difficult. Eyes particularly evade me. I never feel like I’ve captured the soul of a person, you know?” He nods, and I get the same feeling from him as I do from Crawford—he’s really listening, not just waiting for his turn to speak.
“But I like landscapes too. I would love to paint this view. It’s breathtaking.”
“I’m sure Lucas would welcome you any time,” Ambrose says, and I’m surprised to see Crawford’s cheeks turn a little pink.
What was that about?
I glance at the clock. It’s after midnight now. I don’t feel particularly tired, but I wonder what Crawford wants to do. Part of me wondered if I’d show up and he’d just drag me into the bedroom. The gentle introduction has been good, but now my nerves are returning.
What do they want from me?
Crawford seems to sense the change in me and places his glass down on the table.
“Would you like a tour?” he asks, and I finish my wine. I’m glad I don’t feel at all tipsy. I want a clear head for whatever is coming.
“I’d love one.”
We step out of the little sunken area and make our way to the staircase. My anticipation builds as we ascend, and my knees feel a little weak as I look down at the view.
“Jesus, that’s high,” I mutter.
“Luca has an obsession with being taller than everyone else,” Ambrose mutters, and I laugh. Crawford turns, giving his friend a glare.