Chapter 6
6
I’ve been back at the penthouse for a couple of hours now, enough time to thaw out in a hot shower and change into something comfortable for my evening work session: my favorite highlighter-yellow yoga shorts and an oversized black hoodie cropped right above my navel.
I still haven’t heard back from Sebastian about when I might be able to ask him a few questions—I sent him another text as soon as I got to the penthouse, but my phone has remained maddeningly silent.
Instead, I listened to another voice memo and am now flipping through one of the books I brought along for research, published nine years ago at the height of the True North frenzy. It’s full of old photographs from their early days in the studio and on tour, along with even older photographs from each of the members’ childhood days.
My phone buzzes on my desk. Finally.
But it’s still not Sebastian—it’s Chloe, just now replying to my video.
SO, SO PROUD Sorry for the delay, btw, had a client meeting
It was fun , I write back.
Resisting the urge to say I told you so. ALSO. ALIX. Your ski instructor sounds hotttt
I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face. It’s a very good thing she can’t see me right now.
It was a good lesson.
Aaaaaaaaand? she replies.
And it was not the worst way to spend an afternoon , I admit, because it’s the most neutral-sounding version of the truth I can find.
The actual truth: I can’t stop thinking about him.
She sends back a long string of exclamation points. What’s his name?
Tyler , I type back. Tyler Last Name Unknown. We scheduled another lesson for tomorrow…
Alix! I’m so proud of you for making time for yourself
I can only go if I get a ton of work done between now and then , I type back.
Which would be a lot easier if Sebastian would stop leaving me on read, I don’t add.
Wish I could come write the book for you , Chloe replies. At least the skiing will be good for your deadline stress. I think Tyler Last Name Unknown will also be good for you. he sounds like a nice guy
It’s not lost on me that Tyler could be on the other side of the wall right this very minute. I haven’t heard his door—not that I’ve been listening for it—but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe he’s just a quiet person. He could be making dinner, or listening to a podcast, or taking a shower—
Puffin head-butts my ankle, his fur soft against my skin.
“Okay, buddy,” I say, reaching down to pet him. “We can get you some food.”
I shut the book I was flipping through, set it aside for later. Puffin trots happily ahead of me, tail high, like we’ve lived here a year. We’ve been here one day and he already knows where I’ve hidden his food supply.
Every part of my body aches as I bend down to the bowl—muscles I didn’t even know I had are aching. My hot shower clearly wasn’t enough; I’m going to need an Epsom salt bath to recover from my lesson after I finish a little more work. I’m a fairly active person, but I guess I haven’t done much outside of my running routine in a while. I’d forgotten how many parts of the body get a workout while skiing, especially when you’re just getting back into it: my core and butt and quads and hamstrings and calves are sore .
A fleeting thought— Tyler must be absolutely ripped —careens recklessly through my head, and suddenly it’s all I can think about. I do my best to stop it before my imagination gets too far ahead of me, with limited success.
I’m not thinking about Tyler while I make myself a light snack (oatmeal topped with some of the locally sourced maple syrup that was waiting for me in the kitchen upon arrival).
I’m not thinking about Tyler while I power through two more Sebastian voice memos—I definitely don’t have to rewind them due to daydreaming. No more than twice, anyway.
I’m also not thinking about him while drawing my bath, or when I distractedly pour double the amount of lavender-scented Epsom salt into the water as is strictly necessary.
And when the sun has set and I’ve stripped all the way down, ready to soak my soreness away for a bit, I’m most definitely not thinking about his smile, and how—even in the short time I’ve known him—he’s made me laugh more times than I can count.
At the precise moment I dip a toe into the water, there’s a knock at my front door, its echo so loud in the colossal space that I hear it clearly from the master bathroom.
I completely forgot about dinner delivery—the person who dropped off my breakfast this morning took my order and promised to drop it off between eight and nine. (I requested it on the later side, as I’m a night owl and plan to work until midnight.) I throw on the closest thing I can find, a sage-green guest robe made of the softest satin, and scamper across the penthouse, careful not to slip on the polished concrete floor in my bare feet.
“Thank you so much!” I say, whipping the door open—only to find Tyler himself, in the flesh.
“You’re not the room service guy.”
His eyebrows rise. “And you’re, uh—you might want to—”
Tyler gestures vaguely toward the knotted belt of my robe, averts his gaze to the heavens.
I glance down: oh . The soft satin is gaping all the way from my chest to my navel. One quick adjustment later, I’m no longer giving a minor peep show to my ski instructor–slash–next-door neighbor.
“I was just about to take a salt bath,” I explain.
“With… your dinner?”
“My dinner?” I’m momentarily clueless. “ Oh , because I thought you were the room service guy? No. I just forgot he was coming. I don’t normally eat dinner in the bathtub.”
My cheeks grow hot, and he grins.
“No?” he says, eyes twinkling as he leans against the doorframe. “Filet mignon and bubble baths aren’t your ideal pairing?”
“Okay, first of all, I would eat filet mignon pretty much anywhere, no questions asked. But alas, I’m expecting rigatoni arrabbiata—and it’s not a bubble bath. Can I help you?”
He shifts, the soft fabric of his mint-green tee rising just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his stomach.
It is very much as I suspected.
“One of my clients asked if I could fit her in tomorrow,” he says, pulling me back to the conversation. “Would you be able to do your lesson at five instead?”
“Five works,” I say, willing my eyes to stay trained on his face and not his perfect abs. “I’ll bring my own helmet this time—don’t want to press our luck with the whole you-not-breaking-your-face thing.”
“Oh, totally,” he says, nodding. “Now that you’ve seen the Zen Zone for yourself, you know exactly how treacherous it is.”
I laugh. “Hey, the Zen Zone is no freaking joke—I’m sore everywhere .”
“Hence the bath?” he says.
“Hence the bath.”
His gaze flickers down to my robe, to the triangle of bare skin peeking out just above where I’ve pulled it tight, and then back up to my face.
“I guess you should probably go get in before the water gets cold.”
“Probably, yeah.”
His eyes linger on mine just a bit longer.
“See you at five tomorrow,” I say with a wave.
When he nods, his wavy hair falls around his face like a curtain, and I melt a little. He tucks it behind his ear and smiles. “See you then.”
My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, just once: a text.
Please be Sebastian. Please .
I’ve been soaking for so long my hot water is verging on lukewarm, thanks to how totally and completely absorbed I got in the novel I brought with me. It’s a rom-com, a grumpy-sunshine set in summer, in Venice, and I’ve just reached the part where the love interest finally shows the first hint of vulnerability.
I toss the book over onto the fluffy white bathmat by the sink, safe from any water I might splash on the way out, and towel off before tugging on my softest joggers and a longline bralette.
I take one look at my phone and groan.
It’s Lauren.
SOS, ALIX! CALL MEEEEE
Honestly, I can’t believe it’s taken her this long—Lauren is not the most self-sufficient person in the world, to put it kindly. It started the day she was born and never really changed: she arrived several weeks early and the entire vibe in our family for the next few years was Lauren is fragile . Everything revolved around her, and everyone just got used to everything revolving around her, even after she left those years behind.
Once Ian and I were in college, Lauren really was the center of my parents’ universe. You can’t entirely blame her for expecting the world to revolve around her given how consistently it has for her entire life. You also can’t blame her for not knowing how to deal with her problems on her own—my parents fought every battle for her. I’m sure they thought they were doing her a favor.
I am the black sheep in so many ways, not least in that I refuse to treat Lauren like the fragile little kid she once was. She’s an adult now, and from our countless conversations over the last several weeks, I suspect there are good instincts buried under her insecurities—I just wish she’d learn to trust them.
I wait a few minutes, long enough to communicate that she can’t just snap her fingers and expect me to drop everything to be her therapist, and then call her back.
She picks up on the first ring.
“This has been the worst day, Alix, you will not even believe it.”
No hello , no how are you? —just the beginning of what is certain to be a half-hour monologue about the drama du jour at the museum.
I put her on speakerphone and listen as well as I can. In her defense, it really does sound like a terrible day: coworker drama with someone she considered a friend, impossible expectations from one of her bosses, and a guy who tried to feel her up on the subway.
“Lauren,” I say when I’m finally able to get a word in. “It’s going to be okay. You are going to be okay. Okay?”
Part of me is tempted to try and fix everything for her like my parents do—I’m not heartless. I just believe it’ll be better for her in the long run if she can learn how to navigate her problems on her own.
“What do I do , Alix?”
“What do you think you should do?” I hate how patronizing my voice sounds, but thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice.
She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Give up and move to Antarctica where there are no other humans to deal with?”
“First of all, there are humans who live in Antarctica,” I reply. “But I’ve heard the penguins are pretty cliquey—and you hate snow, remember?”
She laughs: mission accomplished.
I give in. I can at least try to point her in the right direction. “Have you talked with any of them about this stuff? Your friends—your boss?”
I already know the answer—Lauren is the most conflict-averse person I’ve ever met in my life—but I had to ask.
“Ugh, no.”
“Well, I’d start there.”
She starts to protest, but I’m too distracted to hear what she says: a message notification dips down from the top of my screen.
Sebastian. Finally.
in tahiti right now, time zones are brutal, major jet leg. i’ll call u in an hour
His use of the letter u stabs me in the eye, but I remind myself that’s one reason I’m writing his book and not him. I’m just glad to finally have confirmation that he’s still alive and still planning to contribute to the project.
“Alix?” Lauren says on the other end of the line.
“Oh, sorry—I’m here. But I actually have to go get ready for a work call.”
“A work call this late at night?”
“Time zone struggles,” I say. I don’t blame her for being confused.
Fortunately, she’s too caught up in her own life to ask any more questions about mine.
I drop my phone on the bed after we end the call, and it sinks into the snowy-white comforter. My stomach growls—and that’s when I realize I never got my room service delivery. The bedside clock reads 9:07.
Welp. Guess I’m going out tonight.
As long as I’m quick, I should be able to get back with plenty of time to collect myself before Sebastian calls. My list of questions is pretty thorough already, so I don’t have that much preparation to do, but I won’t be able to focus if I don’t get food first.
I throw on a thick hoodie and my yellow hat with the pouf, then tug on my UGG boots. It’s not the warmest outfit a girl could throw together, but I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ll be running a marathon in subzero temps, just taking a quick walk over to the main building, where I’ll hopefully be able to warm up by a fire before walking back with my to-go order.
Two steps out my front door, I realize I’ve made a grave mistake: my phone is still on the bed. In its case are my debit and credit cards—and my room key.
I’m a split second too late to catch the door before it clicks shut.