Chapter 6
“These,” I say, “are all yours?”
Nate runs a hand over his jaw. He doesn’t look at me as he closes the car door behind him, and heads to the trunk to unload my bags. “Two of them are.”
“These two… to the right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Shit,” I say, looking at a small vintage sports car. Aston Martin? It has to be it. Parked beside it is a towering SUV—a Land Rover. Its paint sparkles under the overhead lights. “I didn’t know places in London had garages like these.”
“This square does,” he says. He’d pulled into an underground garage in Kensington. We’re off on one of the quiet streets bordering Chelsea, close to the area where he picked me up mere hours ago.
It feels like it’s been days.
I grab my backpack as Nate takes my large suitcase and starts heading to the exit. Five minutes and two locked doors later, we emerge onto the quiet sidewalk of the Kensington square. There’s a small fenced garden at the center, with high trees that reach far above the surrounding townhouses.
And what townhouses they are. They look impeccably maintained, white brick construction with beige stucco around the windows and stoops. Glossy black doors beckon, their numbers emblazoned in gold.
“Number eight,” he says. “That’s mine.”
His code unlocks the gate, and I walk up to the front entrance. The townhouse is two… no, three stories tall. I’ve never been inside one of these. Just walked by them to and from my way to work, wondering about the people who have twenty million pounds to own one.
People like Nate.
“I’ll get you a set of keys and the code,” he says, unlocking the door. It swings open, revealing an interior bathed in soft light. “Come on in, Harper. Welcome.”
I step into the entryway. “Oh.”
“Yeah. It’s bigger than it needs to be, for one person, at least.” He rolls my bag to a stop at the bottom of a narrow staircase. “Want the tour?”
“Mm-hmm. Yeah, that would be… good.”
“All right.” Nate’s voice sounds amused. “Well, here’s the living room… the kitchen. It was renovated just before I bought it, and I kept it as it was.” My eyes dance over the light oak cabinetry, the expanse of stone countertops, and the giant island. The large kitchen table is next to the windows that must open to a garden.
“Here’s the study… and the den. I guess the Brits call it a sitting room. Or a drawing room? I’m not entirely sure.” He stops by a door closest to the entryway. “This is the first guest room. You can choose but, personally, I think the ones on the second floor are better.”
“Better,” I repeat. The guest room I’m looking at looks like a suite in a five-star hotel.
“Yes. Larger.” Back out of the room, he grabs my suitcase and pauses on the first stair, looking at me over his shoulder. There’s a crease between his eyebrows. “You okay, Harp?”
I swallow. “Yes, absolutely. I’m just overwhelmed.”
“Overwhelmed,” he echoes.
“Yeah. You know, for a bachelor, you have a beautiful taste in interior design.”
His lip quirks, and then he turns, starting up the stairs with my giant bag in hand. “I didn’t decorate it.”
“Right. Of course.” Because he’d paid someone or bought it furnished. I knew. I knew he was a Connovan and worked for his family’s giant company. Knew he had more money than God himself. Heard it all from Dean. Had even seen it on occasion, when our paths crossed at parties. But the reality hits me anew. The magnitude of it all.
Dean’s occasional jealous comments ring in my head. How uncharitable they had seemed to me. I often thought he was silly, considering how rich Dean was himself. In my eyes, both men were unbelievably lucky and successful.
But now I see the difference. This isn’t rich. This is wealth.
Halfway up the stairs, I freeze. And just stare.
On the landing, Nate notices my stunned state. “Ah,” he says. “Yeah, I bought that one.”
On the wall of the stairwell is a large oil painting. Across the primarily black canvas, an abstract white piece of fabric has been painted, fluttering on an invisible breeze.
“You bought the J. Quinton I spoke about,” I say.
“Yeah. I did.”
“When? Three years ago?”
“Mm-hmm. You told me it was a great investment.”
I feel a bit breathless as I say, “I think I mentioned that she’s breaking new ground and will probably continue to get more recognition.”
“Yes. A sound investment.” His tone is dry and a little bit hesitant. As if he’s expecting me to contradict myself now.
“I can’t believe it. You have a Girardi in your house. God, it’s beautiful. Don’t you think?”
“It is.”
I take a few cautious steps up the stairs. It’s hard to tear my eyes away from the artwork, but when I do, it’s to look at Nate. Standing with his hands in his pockets at the top of the staircase. Somewhere between the event and this, he’s undone the first two buttons of his white shirt.
“Your room is through here,” he says.
I follow him. “Do you have more art here?”
“A bit more, yeah. This is your bedroom. There’s a bathroom through that door there, and these closets are all empty. Use them. I promise I don’t have any bed bugs.”
“I don’t know if I’d care if you did,” I say. Walking into the room is like… oh my God. I can’t wait to sleep in the giant fluffy bed or walk barefoot across the plush carpet.
I turn, taking in the space. The light oak closets, the inlaid lighting in the ceiling.
The three art prints along the left wall.
I stare at them. “Nate.”
“Yes,” he says.
“You bought the Asher Wren prints? From the auction I worked at?”
He runs a hand over his nape. “Yes. I told you, you’ve been advising my art collection for years.”
“But… I… wow.” I sit down on the bed and just stare at the black-and-white prints. This day has been long. Too long, and it’s all crashing down on me. “I never knew.”
“No. I don’t know if I told you.” He chuckles and leans on the doorframe. “I suppose I owe you a good deal of commission now.”
I shake my head. “No, no. You letting me stay here for the week is more than enough. Thank you. It hurts my pride to admit it, but that place wasn’t… very nice.”
Both of his eyebrows rise. “That description was nice, though. Because that place was an utter dump.”
“Compared to this? Absolutely.”
“Compared to anywhere.”
I reach down and undo the zipper of my leather boots. It feels amazing, freeing my feet after a long day. “So you work most days?”
“Yes. Cleaners come on Mondays, around noon. They’ll do any laundry you leave in the hamper. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and feel free to cook.” He crosses one ankle over the other, his gaze going from my stockinged feet to the windows of my bedroom. “You have my number if you need anything.”
“Yeah.” I look at him, hesitating only a moment before saying what I need to. What has been burning in my chest the entire drive here. “Nate? You know the box?”
His focus shifts back to me. “Yes?”
“Please don’t tell Dean I’m staying with you for the upcoming week. I get it if you feel that you have to, but I… I don’t want him to know about my life now.”
Nate’s quiet for a moment, but then he nods once. “Got it. Won’t tell anyone you’re crashing here.”
“Thank you. I just… I want a clean break. That’s what this is all about.”
“Yeah. You got it.” He takes a step out of the room, his mouth shaping into a smile. “I’ll let you—oh. Did you drop this?” He bends just on the other side of the threshold and picks up a folded piece of paper.
As he unfolds it, I see the familiar crumpled edge, and I’m off the bed in a split second. Shit.
“It must have fallen out of my backpack,” I say. It was in the front pocket, and I must have forgotten to shut it last night after I read through the list for the fifteenth time since writing it.
30 Under 30
I nab it out of his hand. Nate lets it go easily, his eyes moving to mine. Amusement dances there. “I see.”
“Did you?” I ask.
“Almost nothing. Looked intriguing, though.”
I fold it and put my hands behind my back, locking them tightly together. The paper crumbles slightly in my hold. “Just something I wrote on the plane ride over.”
“Fascinating.”
“Not really,” I say. The idea of him, with his freedom and power and money, seeing my ridiculous little list… of maybe even making fun of it the way I know that Dean would have. Nope.
Not having that.
“All right then,” he says.
“Thanks again for tonight.”
“Anytime. I’ll be gone early tomorrow.”
“Me too. I’m on the early shift at the gallery.”
His lips curve. “And how early is early?”
“I need to be there by eight.”
“Good time. Shouldn’t take you long to walk from here.”
“No, I’m looking forward to that.” I shift my weight to my left leg and don’t look away from him. Standing right outside my door. “How about you? Where’s Contron’s office?”
“In Mayfair.”
“Ah. That’s east of here.”
“It is, yes.”
I find myself smiling, too. “I’m learning.”
“’Course you are. Won’t be long until you’re the one driving around London, not me.”
“Well, don’t hold your breath for that.”
He nods again. “Maybe I will. I think you’re going to surprise even yourself here, Harp.”
I have to swallow again. “That’s the plan, at least.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing it come to fruition,” he says. Then he looks back, at the stairs leading up to the next floor. “I’ll be up around seven. Breakfast will be downstairs if you want any.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. All of this, I truly do.”
His lips curve, and then he nods. “Night, Harper.”
“Good night, Nate.” I watch him walk up the stairs and then slowly, quietly, shut my bedroom door.
The water pressure is excellent. The blowdryer in the bathroom is powerful. When I crawl into bed an hour later, between pressed sheets and on a mattress that’s never heard the term metal springs, I fall asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
And when I dream, it’s about art on walls, art I’ve seen and loved over the years all gathered in one place.