Chapter Eighteen
It was silly, but I half-expected to be stopped every step of the way.
The doorman.
The guy at the front desk.
The security system.
Someone.
Something.
But all anyone did was ask me if I needed any help as I took trip after trip from the rental car to the private elevator until there was barely room for me to squeeze in beside my junk.
Then, when I got to the door, the system all but waved me inside.
The penthouse was eerily silent as I made trip after trip inside.
It felt wrong to be inside without Harrison around. Intimate in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
There were small touches of him still around.
The dishwasher whooshed quietly as it ran its cycle.
The New Yorker was sitting on the coffee table. A newspaper was folded on the dining table like he’d sat there and read the news as he had his morning coffee.
In the primary bathroom, a pair of wet black swim trunks were sitting in the tub to dry off before, I assumed, they hit the hamper.
I learned little things about Harrison as I drifted through the empty apartment.
He slept on the side of the bed closest to the door. He had a decanter and glass on that nightstand for morning drinks. The remotes for the TV were there as well. A small disc sat there as well for rapidly charging his cell phone.
There was nothing on the other nightstand.
There wasn’t even anything in the other nightstand drawers.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I went back to Harrison’s side of the bed to snoop through the top drawer.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but I found a box of condoms, lip balm, an e-reader, and four mismatched cufflinks. Like he kept them there in case he came across their matches.
Deciding I’d wasted enough time, I got off his bed and got to work spreading my things around.
I picked the bedroom nearest to the pool. First, because it was a pretty view. Second (and most important) because it was the furthest from Harrison’s bedroom.
That said, for maximum effect, I spread all my makeup, hair products, serums, lotion, and clothes through all the bathrooms.
I was behind on my reading from my aunts and cousin and the book club all my girl cousins and I belonged to. So books got spread around the common areas.
Mismatched mugs from my travels sat next to Harrison’s matching set in the cabinet.
Fluffy blankets were draped over the backs of the couches.
Several pairs of my shoes were lined up behind the door.
Hair ties and claw clips found new homes everywhere. Sweaters, hoodies, and slippers wound up in the dining and living room. Even Harrison’s office for good measure.
And finally, for extra fun, I saved all my shows and movies to Harrison’s streaming services.
Changed the thermostat. Turned lights on in rooms I didn’t even go in.
Rearranged all the cabinets to ‘make things easier to find.’ Reorganized the pantry so that instead of ‘like’ items all clustered together, it was in alphabetical order.
Instead of being (rightly) next to the angel hair pasta, the linguine was right next to the lentils.
The brown sugar no longer sat beside the white sugar but was with the beans instead.
It was complete chaos.
It was going to take him hours to undo the damage.
It was going to be delightful to listen to him grumble and rant to himself as I lounged on the sofa trying not to laugh.
Close to the end of the workday, I took a long, hot shower in the primary bedroom, steaming up the whole space and the bedroom before I changed into my ugliest outfit: oversized men’s sweatpants and a giant pink tie-dye hoodie.
Then I made myself some of his expensive coffee, turned on some absurd reality TV show, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
I was half-dozing when I heard the security system bleep.
Then there he was.
Looking really rundown. Face drawn, bags under his eyes, shoulders slumped.
I’d never seen him without the cool, calm, confident, charming mask.
It was startlingly human.
And I immediately started to feel bad about screwing with his sanctuary.
Something caught his eye.
Maybe one of my shoes?
It was hard to tell.
But then his brows pinched.
Until finally, his head lifted.
And found me.
“Layna?”
Thank God he didn’t breathe my name out like he normally did. My body seemed incapable of handling that. But a simple question? That, I could do.
“You’re home late,” I said, reaching for some of the popcorn I’d made earlier and making sure to trail a piece or two on the floor on the trip from bowl to mouth.
I almost smiled when his gaze tracked their fall.
Maybe this would be even easier than I imagined.
“It was a long day,” he agreed, taking a step forward and immediately tripping over one of my shoes. “You’re… here.”
“Well, it is our marital home, isn’t it?” I asked.
His lips quirked at the term.
“Indeed it is,” he agreed. “I’m glad you came,” he said. And I got to watch as his gaze took in the blankets, sweaters, books, and miscellaneous junk all around. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple of hours,” I said, dropping more popcorn.
He nodded, still trying to take everything in.
“Have you eaten?”
“Popcorn.”
“So no,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.
“Are you going to cook?”
I was more excited about that prospect than I should have been.
And, damn him, he read me easily enough that he noticed.
“Do you have any requests?”
“Nope. I’m just curious if you can top the last meal.” And how frustrated you’re going to get while trying to find ingredients in that pantry.
“Challenge accepted,” he said, rolling up those damn sleeves again.
One day, I needed to survey my aunts and cousins and ask if they, too, got feral when a man rolled up his sleeves, or if it was just a me thing.
“I’ve seen you eat pasta and fish and about five gallons of coffee. But do you have any dietary restrictions or allergies?”
“No. But I hate blue cheese. With a passion.”
“Noted,” he said, going to the fridge.
I hadn’t done too much fussing there, so things were mostly as he left them.
I tried to ignore him and watch my silly show. But curiosity had me unfolding off the couch and making my way into the kitchen.
“Red goes with dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the rack. “Want to pick one out?”
The last thing I needed around him was alcohol. But one glass of wine with dinner wasn’t going to make me fall into bed with him again.
So I picked a wine.
And nearly snort-laughed when he went into the pantry and mumbled a quiet “What the hell?”
I poured myself a glass of wine.
“I may have… moved some things around,” I admitted, taking a sip to hide my smile.
“I see,” he said, his voice just a tad tighter than I’d heard it before.
But he made no other comment as he hunted around for the ingredients he needed.
I wondered if I would wake up in the middle of the night to see him awake and putting things back to rights because he couldn’t sleep knowing what a mess things were.
“What are you making?” I asked when he seemed more comfortable with the silence than I was.
“Braciole.”
“I don’t know what that is,” I admitted.
“It’s an Italian-style roulade.” At my raised brows, he gave me a little smile. “A rolled and stuffed meat. This is pork flank with prosciutto, panko, parmesan, and pecorino with a garlicky tomato sauce. And a side of pasta,” he said, waving to the box of orzo. “Since you’re such a fan of carbs.”
“You can never go wrong with carbs.”
“Do you want to help?” he asked.
“I think I’d rather watch,” I said.
“Would you mind grabbing some fresh basil?”
“Like in one of those clamshells?” I asked, going toward the fridge.
“Like on the front balcony,” he said, nodding toward the door.
“You grow herbs?”
“A few.”
“How much basil do you want?” I asked, kind of excited to check out the front balcony. It was one of the few places I hadn’t checked out yet.
“Enough to cover your palm.”
“Okay. But if the plant dies, it’s not my fault. My cousin claims I can make her garden wilt just by looking at it.”
“I won’t hold it against you,” he agreed, his eyes warm.
I made my way to the balcony, sliding open the door, my sweats keeping the cool air from chilling me.
Harrison had minimal furniture, just two chaise lounges set at the widest part of the balcony.
But a few feet from the sliding door sat a three-level wooden plant stand, each one loaded up with various herb plants.
Thanks to a few gardening enthusiasts in my family, I recognized rosemary, thyme, parsley, cilantro, sage, oregano, chives, and several large basil plants.
I’d always been kind of amazed by people who could grow and keep plants alive.
No, this wasn’t at the scale of the girls at the homestead or even some of the backyard gardens in my family. Still, it was neat to be able to grow something like this in the city. On a damn balcony.
I grabbed some of the basil the way Kit had taught me to harvest and brought it back into the kitchen with me.
“Have you always been a gardener?”
“I don’t know if I’d call that a garden. But, actually, yes. There was a big kitchen garden at my father’s home. The housekeepers and cooks always liked having fresh ingredients. And the gardeners were happy to oblige.”
“And because you had no real friends, you helped.”
“Yeah. I even went out at night with a headlamp to pluck tomato hornworms off the plants.”
“Do you miss it? Having a real garden?”
“Yes and no.”
“How is it both?”
“I do enjoy it. But I don’t have the time for a real garden right now. Maybe in the next five years.”
“Oh, you have a five-year plan. Willa is famous for those. I’m assuming the plan includes a house outside of the city.”
If I hadn’t been watching so closely, I would have missed the way his posture tightened ever so slightly.
“My childhood home.”
“Do you own it?”
“It’s in a trust with a set of delayed possession clauses.”
“Like what?”
“I had to be over thirty-five, married, and the business had to pull in a certain amount of revenue per year.”
“Seriously? Why?”