Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
JILLIAN
Patrick doesn’t answer me. He only gives me a smirk, and some emotion I can’t decipher passes across his face.
I should question what he’s thinking, but I don’t. I promised myself that I’d be free to do what I want tonight. It’s my birthday party. Even though I wanted to celebrate it with my twin, I think I’m going to have a fun time with Patrick.
A red Porsche 959 pulls up to the curb, and I’m speechless when Patrick opens the passenger side door and tells me to get in. He then closes my door and rounds the hood, handing the valet a tip before he climbs into the driver’s side.
“This is your car?” I finally find my words—unfortunately they are laced with disbelief.
Patrick turns his head, amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. “Yes. Why?”
“Nothing.” I then clamp my mouth shut and Patrick takes off down Dearborn until he reaches Oak Street and makes a right.
The entire time, my eyes are glued to the windshield as I take in the tall buildings and the wonders of the night life. When I lower my window a little, I hear the chatter of the city of Chicago in the wind.
I close my eyes as the wind combs through my hair, trying to relax, but my taut nerves are making it difficult.
If I have to be honest, I truly don’t know Patrick well.
Giving people my trust right away isn’t something I usually do—it takes a bit before I let a person into my life.
But Jamie knows Patrick because they work together at Prudential.
He trusts this man. Even so, that doesn’t mean I should trust him completely. On the other hand, it has been a year…
“I thought we could walk a little, but I need to park my car.” Patrick says as he flicks the turn signal before slowing down, and then he taps a remote of some sort on the visor.
“Where?” I look out the windshield and watch as a garage-type door on the ground level of one of the high rises slowly opens. I glance up at the tall building, feeling a little dizzy from the height of the structure.
“My place,” Patrick says so nonchalantly that his words don’t register until he drives through the garage opening and turns down into the below-ground part of the building.
“What do you mean your place? Like this is where you live?” I can’t keep the astonishment out of my voice.
I close my eyes and picture the building I just saw—doesn’t he know that I’m afraid of heights?
Then I tell myself that it will be fine because we are going for a walk and not up to his apartment.
“Yes. Why?” he asks, as he slowly maneuvers through the tight cement confines until he pulls into a space marked with the number twenty-three painted on the cinder block wall.
“Why?” My mind goes blank at his question, and my dopey self can’t think of anything else to say.
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re young, and these places are expensive,” I blurt out, and instant mortification has me covering my mouth. God. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“I have nothing to hide. My grandmother owned it until she passed away three years ago, and then I inherited it.” Patrick grins. “How about that walk? We can go to the beach or at least stroll along the walkway.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say, turning my face away in embarrassment. Get it together.
We exit the car, and he leads me to a single elevator. He taps the up button and when the door opens, we get in. Patrick pushes the button that reads Lobby.
The ride up is quick and I’m grateful that I don’t have the need to upchuck.
I easily get motion sickness, so I avoid sitting in the back seat of a vehicle or getting on a boat.
One time, my family had the bright idea to go on a cruise.
For five whole days, I remained in the cabin and used the tiny toilet as my lifeline. I’ll never do that again.
Patrick takes my hand and I follow him through the lobby to the building’s front entrance, where we walk out into the summer night air. It is exactly what I need and my nervousness dissipates immediately.
“We can walk around Grant Park,” he says as we make our way to the stop light, which has the walking sign already lit up. Patrick grips my hand as he steps onto the crosswalk. “Hurry.”
I follow close behind, but my feet are starting to hurt. I considered wearing flats because I knew I’d be standing and dancing a lot at the club, but they don’t make my legs look good and vanity won. Now I am paying for it.
“Are your feet hurting you?” He is so observant.
“No,” I lie.
As we make it to the other side, Patrick abruptly stops and turns to me. “In order for us to get to know each other better, Jillian, there can’t be lies between us. Now, are your feet hurting you?”
My mouth drops open at his frankness. But of course, he’s right. There shouldn’t be lies between us—even tiny ones. “Yes, but I can handle it.”
Seemingly without thought, he scoops me into his arms and proceeds to carry me to a bench several feet away.
“You don’t need to carry me, Patrick,” I scold, but I don’t make any attempts to get out of his hold either. I actually like his chivalry. It reminds me of my father, who shows his love to my mother in his actions.
“Here,” he says as he gently puts me down on the bench. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” I bend forward, pull off my heels and begin to rub my feet.
Patrick sits about a foot away from me. What the heck? “Turn sideways.” When I comply, he takes hold of my left foot and begins rubbing it from heel to toes.
I let out a soft groan. “That feels so good. Don’t stop.” Patrick pauses. His eyes are focused so sharply on me that I’m stock-still under his scrutiny. “Umm… What’s wrong?”
He clears his throat. “Nothing.” He sets my left foot in his lap and begins to rub my other foot.
When I start to consider crawling into his lap, I reluctantly decide to push pause. I pull my feet out of his hands and straighten on the bench. “Thanks. I’m good now.”
“How about we forget the walk and head back to my place? You can rest your feet and we can talk there. Sound good?”
“Oh, okay—”
“I mean, if you want to that is.”
“I think my feet will thank you for that,” I say with a chuckle, trying to ease the sudden tension between us.
He smiles, and I can see the relief across his face as he stands. I’m about to put my heels back on when he takes them from my hands. “You’re not walking in them. I’m going to carry you.”
“Patrick, I can wa—”
He scoops me up without letting me finish my sentence. “Don’t argue.” I decide to obey, just this once, and loop my arms around his neck. Then he carries me to the light, across the crosswalk, and all the way to his building—which isn’t too far. But all the same, I feel guilty.
When we reach the door, he pauses and looks down at me with a beat of concern. “Are you sure you want to come up? I can drive you home and we can talk there if you feel more comfortable at your place.”
So sweet! He’s giving me an out.
“Umm…” Oh, heck with it. “No. Show me your place, and I have to use your powder room anyway,” I say earnestly.
“Well, that request I can accommodate.” He takes the few steps up to the door, which is being held open by the doorman.
“Good evening, Mr. Martin,” the doorman says as we get close to him.
I am impressed—the man makes no comment or facial expression at seeing Patrick carry me.
Then I wonder—does he do this often? Carry ladies into his apartment?
I’m surprised at the spark of jealousy until I realize I’m being ridiculous.
Take a chill pill, Jill. You aren’t together. Yet.
Patrick returns the greeting as we enter the lobby. He then puts me down on my bare feet, takes my hand, and leads me to a bank of elevators, where he pushes the up arrow.
“What floor do you live on?” I ask, hoping his place is on one of the lower levels.
“The thirty-seventh floor.”
“Wow.” I silently gulp. “That high,” I utter, as my stomach flops with nervousness. “I have never been that high up—I mean I’ve been on a plane, but that’s different. You know, but—yeah, I have never been in a high rise.”
“You are so cute when you’re flustered.”
His words turn my cheeks hot and make my stomach flop in a different way. “I’m glad you like it when I’m ruffled. The last thing I want to look like is an idiot. But you haven’t seen anything yet.” God, just shut up already.
“What I mean to say is don’t be anxious. It’s just me. How about this, after you go to the washroom, I can open a bottle of wine and we can chill and talk.”
“Yes, that sounds good,” I chuckle, feeling slightly better.
The elevator opens up, we step inside and a couple about our age joins us before the door slides shut. Patrick taps thirty-seven while the woman pushes forty. The moment the elevator door closes and the car begins to rise, I suddenly feel sweaty, my heart is racing and my stomach is churning.
Oh god, don’t throw up.
“How are you, Patrick?” the man asks as he steps behind the voluptuous woman and wraps his arms around her. I’m so envious, she has curves I only wish I had.
“Doing fabulous, Sal,” Patrick says and tightens his grip on my hand. “How about you?”
He looks down at his girl, smiles and says, “We’re good.”
“No more partying?” Patrick asks, a smirk that says more than what he has conveyed.
“Nope. We’re heading in early tonight.” The looks between the couple don’t have to be deciphered—it’s obvious they are lovers. These two are about to do it. Again—envious. I wish I had the guts to just say to Patrick, “Hey let’s have sex.” Instead, I lean closer to Patrick and remain silent.
We reach his floor and get out. Patrick does a silent wave to the couple and then leads me down the hallway to the door marked three-zero-seven-five.
He opens the door and points to the right. “The powder room is down that hallway.”