Chapter 22
The ride to Reeve’s condo is far less dramatic than my earlier drive.
When I turn off Bloor Street onto a narrow side street, he’s waiting just as promised, hand outstretched, looking like he walked off the front of a J.Crew catalog and making me very aware that I still haven’t replaced the buttons on my coat.
He jumps inside and leans across the console as if he’s about to kiss me, but the hard beep of the annoyed driver behind us stops him.
“Easy there, buddy.” He flashes an acknowledging wave. “Here.” He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “Use this.” He hands me the keys, holding them by a black key fob, which I tap against the black box at the garage entrance, causing the door to lift.
Reeve directs me to a parking spot with a serious sign that details the repercussions of not having the correct permits for parking. He places an official-looking parking pass on my dash, swiftly grabs my overnight bag from the backseat, and holds out his hand as he waits for me to lock my car.
When my fingers find his, I feel the best I have all day. That feeling is only topped when we step into the empty elevator and he drops my bag to the floor, tugging me closer and slipping his arms under my coat and around my waist.
“Today was torture.” He places a light kiss on my lips. “I watched the clock all afternoon, resisting the urge to call you.”
“You could have.” I hook my fingers through his belt loops and press onto my toes to kiss him back.
“I didn’t know if your car was hands-free. I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”
I’m about to tell him that despite his good intentions, that premonition still came true, but he leans in and plants another kiss on my neck, just below my earlobe, and all bad thoughts fly away.
“Can you do that again?” I ask.
“I plan on doing that quite a lot, actually,” he says, but before he can make good on his promise, the elevator dings, and the door slides open.
I have thought about what Reeve’s apartment might look like on multiple occasions. Yet, I have no idea what to expect as he leads me to the end of a long hallway, where he uses a different key fob to open his door. It beeps and clicks, and he pushes it open with a “Home sweet home.”
I have no idea why I’m holding my breath. Still, my head swoons with a dizzy, offset feeling as I step into a brightly lit foyer, my emotions churning with apprehension and straight-up curiosity.
At first glance, everything seems to be in the realm of what I anticipated.
The foyer area is simple and clean: white walls and white tiled floor.
But then I follow Reeve down the hall to his open-concept kitchen and living area, ignoring the marble counters, the wide-planked wood floors, the art, and the modern sectional sofa that looks like it came straight out of a Crate & Barrel catalog, because my eyes are fixated on the windows in front of me.
They span upward two stories to the loft above and run the entire length of the south-facing wall.
“Wow, you can see the whole city from up here.”
Reeve sets my bag down next to the kitchen island. “Yeah, it’s the main reason I bought the place. You can see all the way to the lake on a nice day. That, and the building has an infinity pool on the roof.”
He smiles, and I nod as if I, too, would have considered this.
“Are you cold?” Reeve reaches out, and the backs of his fingers skim down my tightly hugged arms.
I nod, not wanting to tell him that temperature-wise, I’m fine. It’s just the rest of me that feels so completely out of my element.
He walks over to the wall and clicks something on a keypad. It beeps, then there is a whooshing sound as a giant glass fireplace set into the wall fills with dancing flames.
I stare momentarily, mesmerized by the orange glow, and return to reality only when Reeve clears his throat. “Want the rest of the tour?”
He picks up my bag again and I follow him up a staircase. It’s one of those modern artsy ones with only the step and no backstop that makes me grip the railing tight in fear of losing my balance and falling through.
When we reach the top, Reeve hesitates.
“That’s my room.” He points to his left, to a door open enough to see a perfectly made bed and the same view as below. “And this is the guest room.” He walks over and opens the door to a second room. This one has a spacious queen bed and a beautiful oak dresser with a mirror.
“I got it ready for you,” he says, tilting his head, his eyes searching my face. “We didn’t really talk about…” His voice trails off, and my cheeks flush with a mortified heat.
Reeve’s right. We didn’t discuss sleeping arrangements. I definitely thought about them when I imagined where he lived. Assumed he, like me, had a tiny one-bedroom and that this weekend would mean only one bed, inevitably leading to sex, but now I’m second-guessing things. Second-guessing him.
“It’s great.” My voice comes out in a rush as I realize I’ve taken too long to answer. “It’s beautiful. So clean.”
My cheeks are absolutely on fire now, and I attempt to hide them by looking out the window at yet another breathtaking city view.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. I can see him in the window’s reflection, setting my bag on a small chair. “I made a reservation at a place nearby, unless you want to hang in. I wasn’t sure if you’d need more time to prep.”
Right. Tomorrow.
Just a day that has the potential to change my life forever.
“I would like to keep myself as distracted as possible.” I turn from the window. “I’m as prepared as I can be. All I need is to relax and get a good night’s sleep.”
Reeve’s eyes linger on my face for a moment before he nods and says, “I can definitely help with that.”
We walk to the restaurant, taking Bloor Street most of the way, passing Hermès, Dior, and a slew of other high-end shops that I’ve never heard of but that look expensive, then cut down a pedestrian path between two tall buildings and come out on a quieter street with small independent shops and a few bars.
The street has that “trying not to be pretentious” vibe while very much still being so.
A little like Port Logan in the summer when the wealthier tourists come to stay at their summer cottages.
We stop at a crosswalk next to a group of women in long wool coats carrying designer bags.
Their effortless sophistication makes me feel less pulled together and more thrown together, which quickly morphs into another eerie feeling of déjà vu as I am reminded of Kitty in the Royal York Hotel.
She stared at an equally intimidating pair of women and said in much more eloquent words, I want to be like that.
As I pull my peacoat tighter, eyeing their four-inch heels from the comfort of my flat, comfortable boots, I realize that, at my core, I don’t share Kitty’s aspirations.
We continue to walk. Reeve stops in front of a pale yellow stucco building with a cobblestoned side patio shut down for the winter save for a single tall heater with two men in suits smoking underneath.
“This is it.” Reeve holds out his arm to let me take the stairs first. “The food is amazing, especially the dessert. I think you’re going to love it. ”
I pull open the front door and step into dim lighting and low-key house music. A hostess in a strapless black dress is standing behind a Plexiglas pedestal. Her lips are a bright shade of red, the bottom one caught between her teeth as she studies an iPad in front of her.
“Reservations for two under Baldwin,” Reeve says, helping me out of my coat.
I am caught between loving the sound of those words and noticing the way the hostess’s eyes drop to my jeans and then my knockoff Costco UGGs.
It makes me reconsider that what I thought was comfortable but cute might, in reality, be screaming, Not from around here.
Reeve, whose suit fits in beautifully with this business casual crowd, holds out his arm, seemingly oblivious to my slow slide down this self-esteem spiral.
When I step closer, he places his palm on the small of my back.
We follow a different hostess through the crowded restaurant to a small table near the window.
Reeve pulls out my chair, but this sweet, chivalrous act is lost to the panicked band of sweat breaking out across my forehead as I fully take in my surroundings.
The restaurant is even fancier than I thought.
There are cloth coverings on the tables set with two types of wineglasses and three different forks.
I sit down, hold the menu open in front of me, and try to smother the Jesus Christ that wants to word-vomit its way out of my mouth at the sight of the prices in front of me.
“Forty-five dollars for a hamburger?” I accidentally say out loud. “Is the bun plated in gold?”
“I know.” Reeve folds his menu and sets it down beside him. “I try not to think too hard about it, but they’re famous for it. And it’s really good.”
I can’t fathom what one could put on a hamburger that would make it taste twenty-eight dollars better than a quarter-pounder special at Lou’s, and I have no intention of finding out tonight.
“What are you in the mood for?” Reeve asks, picking back up his menu.
My mood and what I can afford after my unbudgeted parking ticket are very different things.
Our server arrives. He’s wearing a dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves to show off just a hint of the tattoos on each of his forearms. Its pristine whiteness makes me wonder how long I’d last working here before having a run-in with a chicken cacciatore.
“Hi, I’m Micah, I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with a cocktail?”
Reeve lowers his menu to look at me. “Do you want to split a bottle of wine? Or something else?”
I can’t bring myself to look at the wine prices.
“Maybe just a beer?” I say to Reeve, then realize it’s probably our server I should be talking to. “Pbr?”