Chapter Ten
I didn’t actually intend to go to the spa. But the second the driver got me into the backseat, he set off in that direction.
And, well, a massage didn’t sound horrible.
Especially if it was already set up.
“So, how does this work?” I asked John when he opened the door for me at the spa situated in an unassuming gray building with blacked-out windows and a suit-clad doorman.
“How does what work, Mrs. Valentine?”
“I’m supposed to meet with Harrison later.”
“I will bring you to wherever you’re meeting.”
“Okay. But how do I get in contact with you?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“You’ll just be… waiting for me to finish at the spa?”
“That’s my job,” he said. “I’m your personal driver.”
“What about Harrison?”
“He has his own driver.”
That tracked.
“This is insane,” I mumbled to myself.
“Hm?”
“Nothing. Well, I’ll see you in a bit, I guess.”
“Mrs. Valentine,” the doorman of the spa greeted me as I approached.
“This is getting out of hand,” I mumbled, but offered him a smile as I passed through.
The whole spa smelled comfortingly of lavender and vanilla, and I was quickly whisked away to a private room where I was given a robe to change into and a list of all the spa options.
Apparently, Harrison had paid for all their services.
To an eye-watering sum of money. Which made me feel like I had to have all the treatments done, so it wasn’t a waste.
So I had one massage, was slathered in mud, had a foot massage, a facial, hair treatments, another type of massage that both hurt and felt good in equal turns, followed by an herbal body wrap, a hot stone massage, light therapy, dry brushing, a steam, and, finally, one last ‘relaxation’ massage.
Like I hadn’t already been relaxed to within an inch of my life already.
In between treatments, I was given copious amounts of spa water full of fruits and cucumbers, offered fresh fruit, dark chocolate, and champagne.
I went ahead and skipped the latter. The last thing in the world I needed when I was about to meet with Harrison again was anything that would alter my mind.
“Can I help you find something?” an employee asked when I pulled back a curtain in the final treatment room.
“I was just looking for a window,” I admitted. “This place is disorienting. Like a casino,” I added. The only windows I’d seen were the ones out front in the reception area. Which was completely cut off from the back of the spa.
“We find our guests relax better without the evidence of the world outside,” the woman told me. “Can we set up any more treatments for you?”
“I think I’ve had them all,” I said with a little laugh. “I should probably get going.”
With that, I was led back to the first room where I changed, collected my bag, and was led out to the front of the spa.
“It’s dark,” I said to the doorman as he let me out.
“It is,” he agreed.
“What time is it?”
“Just after six.”
“Six?”
I’d been in the spa, what, seven hours? A whole workday, practically.
“Mrs. Valentine,” John said, making my head whip up.
“Hey. I’m so sorry,” I said, stepping toward him.
“What for?”
“For making you sit out here for seven hours! Who does that?”
“That’s the job,” he said, shrugging.
“Did you get to eat at least?”
“I took a few short breaks.”
“Well, why don’t you just tell me an address, and I can get myself there so you can go home?”
“I’ll bring you to the penthouse, Mrs. Valentine.”
“I can walk,” I insisted.
“It’s on the Upper East Side.”
“A cab then.”
“Mrs. Valentine,” he said, opening the back door.
That felt like the professional way of him saying, ‘get your ass in the car, Layna.’
I didn’t want to keep him from his life any longer, so I went ahead and slid in.
“Did you speak to Harrison?” I asked when the silence in the car stretched uncomfortably long.
“Twenty minutes ago. He was on his way home.”
The drive took nearly twice as long as it would have at any other time of day.
The building we pulled up to had slate cladding and large vertical windows with black frames and muntins.
Except on the top floor, where several of the windows had rounded tops.
The penthouse floor also appeared to have two large balconies at the front of the building. It was impossible to see to the back.
But I guess I would see for myself soon enough.
“Thanks for the ride, John,” I said. “Sorry that spa visit took so long.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he insisted as I made my way toward the front door that was, yet again, manned by a man in a suit.
“Mrs. Valentine,” he greeted me.
“Hey,” I said, giving him a smile. It wasn’t these people’s fault that I didn’t want to be addressed like that. They were just doing the job they were told to do. By the person who likely tipped them very well.
The lobby was warm and lit in that way that made it glow.
When my step stuttered, someone was—of course—all too happy to direct me to the private penthouse elevator and provide me with the key to actually unlock it.
I was used to being around financially well-off people. Most of my family was very comfortable. Willa was, objectively, kind of rich.
But this world of Harrison’s? This was something completely different entirely.
The doors chimed and opened to a vestibule full of gleaming wood floors, a coat closet, a console table, a security panel, and the door.
I guess it was probably a buffer zone—a place for assistants or delivery persons to drop off packages, dry cleaning, or food orders.
Understandably, Harrison didn’t want a bunch of building employees just walking into his apartment. And it probably worked from a security standpoint to make sure there was one more door, one more security checkpoint, between strangers and his home.
Sucking in a breath, I made my way to the door and started to lift my hand to knock, when the screen beside the door announced, “Approved access.”
The door unlocked.
Jesus.
He’d even set his security system up to recognize me?
I pushed open the door and stepped into, well, the nicest freaking penthouse I’d ever seen. And I’d seen a few.
The space was open, the dozens of windows letting the city lights in, but the cozy, warm lighting inside made it all somehow feel a world away.
The floors were the same gleaming dark wood as in the vestibule; the walls were gray.
Directly in the center of the space was a sprawling living area with four sofas, a giant coffee table, and a TV hanging over a gas fireplace.
To the left was a kitchen that melted into a dining room.
The cabinets were black, the island a waterfall of black marble.
It all leaned masculine but somehow didn’t come off cold thanks to the abundance of overhead, standing, and table lighting, little touches of brushed copper and aged bronze, artwork, carpet, and wood.
Whatever he paid his interior designer, it was worth every penny.
As I stood there, the scent of tomato, garlic, and basil wafted over to me, making my mostly empty stomach grumble.
“Layna,” Harrison’s voice called, making me turn to see him moving out of a door to the side of the kitchen that must have been a pantry.
Those damn sleeves were rolled up again. And he had a bag of those little pasta circles in his hand.
“I hate that I like your apartment,” I admitted, making a smile tug at his lips.
“I’ll take the compliment,” he said, making his way into the kitchen.
“You’re cooking?”
“I am.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I do.”
“I don’t.”
“You told me,” he said. “You can make a mean boxed mac & cheese, grilled cheese, or cheese omelet. You’re heavy on the cheese in your culinary pursuits.”
“In my defense, I’ve never had my own place with a kitchen to learn.”
“And when you crash with your cousins, you order in.”
“I also hate that you know so much about me and I know nothing about you.”
“You can ask me anything you want to know.”
“Who taught you how to cook?”
“The housekeeper when I was growing up. She wasn’t supposed to, but I was a lonely kid who hung out while she was cooking. Eventually, she let me start helping.”
“So you grew up rich.”
“The Valentine Group was created by my grandfather, fostered by my father, and passed to me after his passing.”
Maybe it was silly, but I felt some of the tension leaving my shoulders with each new nugget of information I was getting about him.
“Was your mother a businesswoman?”
“My mother died when I was three. Car crash.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart ached for him. Coming from a family of so many amazing moms, I couldn’t imagine having no mother figure growing up.
Harrison turned his attention to chopping up something green. His tone was a little more guarded when he spoke again. “I was raised by a nanny until I was eight. Then it was just the housekeeper at home most of the time.”
“Your father wasn’t around?”
“No.”
“Did you grow up here in the city?”
“No. I grew up in New Jersey mostly.”
“No way,” I said, eyeing him again.
I mean, it made sense. I’d hopped on a train into the city to come see him. Depending on where you lived in Jersey, you were only an hour or hour and a half away by train, ferry, or car.
“Wait… did we know each other growing up?” I asked, thinking that might make more sense for why he was so intent on staying married. “Did we go to school together?”
Though even as I asked it, it seemed unlikely. I’d gone to public school. Someone like a Valentine, coming from generational wealth, would have gone to one of the many prestigious private schools.
“No. I’m a few years older than you, sweetheart,” he said.
We were going to go ahead and pretend that pet name didn’t make my belly flutter.
“Did we hang out? Go to the same parties?”
“No. I never met you before Vegas.”
I opened my mouth, about to start in on the annulment, on his stubbornness about dissolving this so-called ‘relationship.’
But he interrupted me.
“Do you want to give yourself a tour?” he asked. “I have another half an hour or so before dinner is ready.”
Maybe some space was what I needed. Being pushy hadn’t worked with him so far. I needed to calm myself down.
“Okay,” I agreed, dropping my bag, then turning to walk down the hallway.
There was a study full of built-ins, the shelves full of books.
Did he read them?
Were they just décor?
Beyond the study were two guest rooms, all meticulously decorated but devoid of any personal details.
At the end of the hall was the primary suite.
And I swear it had more square footage than that whole hotel penthouse in Vegas.
It had the same sexy dark woods and warm, golden lighting as the living space, with a massive bed flanked by nightstands. Across from that was a long dresser with a television.
To each side of the dresser were doorways.
Curiosity piqued, I walked through the closest one and found his and hers closets that met in the center with a small seating area.
On Harrison’s side were dozens of suits, shirts, leisure outfits, workout clothes, and sleep pants.
On the her side?
Garment bags.
Not a ton of them, maybe enough for five or so outfits. There were also two bags from Agent Provocateur—a larger version of the one there’d been in Vegas.
“Of course,” I grumbled, going over toward them to reach inside.
I expected bras and panties, things that he’d conjured up in his fantasies.
Inside, though, were several pajama sets. Most weren’t even of the sexy variety—just silky shorts and camis, and even one long pant and long sleeve set. Plus a robe.
There were four or five panties at the bottom, but it did seem more like he’d mostly focused on getting me sleep clothes.
I exhaled hard, not sure what to think about what I’d found, so I chose instead to walk into the en suite bathroom.
It was another sprawling space. All marble floors and walls and a shower niche that was big enough for a soccer team. But the soaking tub was a major feature—a standalone in front of frosted windows, so you got a peek-a-boo effect.
Everything was set up to invite you to soak, too. Fluffy towels were set on a little table next to it, along with a few bath bombs and a loofah.
On the floating double vanity, I found an extra, wrapped toothbrush.
I reached for it, feeling a strange sinking sensation in my chest.
Was Harrison just… lonely?
Was he so lonely that he was setting up his life with the hope that I would, what, fall in love with the grandeur and agree to stay with him?
And because I was raised the way I was, I also wondered if that loneliness was dangerous.
With a sigh, I made my way back out into the common area.
“What’s wrong?” he asked when he looked up and saw me standing there.
“How desperate are you to have a wife?”
“Desperate?” he asked, brows knitting. “Not at all.”
“Oh, come on. The clothes, the bath bombs…”
“I can’t think of a way to say this that won’t make me sound like an elitist ass,” he stated, “but, sweetheart, don’t you think if I wanted a wife before now, I could have had one?”
Okay.
That was a reasonable argument.
He was, damn him, insanely handsome. He was unfathomably wealthy. He was considerate and capable. Men like him wouldn’t struggle to find women to settle down with, if that was what he was after.
“So you’re not just a sad, lonely dude who is desperate for companionship?”
“Do I seem sad, lonely, or desperate?” he asked.
“Ugh!” I snapped, throwing up a hand.
“Not the answer you were hoping for?”
“I could have felt bad for you if you were just lonely. Understood why you’re digging in your heels about this. But now, now you’re just a pain in the ass.”
“A pain in the ass who just made dinner. Join me?” he asked, waving toward the dining table.
Warning bells went off in my mind.
But maybe we could have a calm, rational discussion over a meal, and then he’d sign the damn papers.
Even as I sat down at the table, I knew it was nothing but wishful thinking.
Then, well, then things got away from me.