Chapter 20
Jamie
Ethan’s private elevator opens directly into a reception area in his apartment. On my right is a long hallway with several doors coming off it, all of them closed. On my left, the reception area leads into a living room. The place is huge.
“The guest suite is through the last door,” he says, turning right and starting down the long hallway. “I’ll change in my room and meet you in the living room, through there.”
That’s how big this place is. I need directions. Or a map.
I open last door at the end of the hallway and go into a large bedroom that’s like a luxury hotel room.
The style is minimalist, mostly black and white with a few artful splashes of color, and everything looks expensive.
The adjoining bathroom is fully stocked with clean towels and scented soaps and hair-care products.
The whole place is so fancy, I feel decidedly out of place after my shower, when I change into old pair of leggings and a faded, well-washed Rage Against the Machine t-shirt.
When I head back into the hallway, Ethan emerges from another door. His dark hair is damp, and he’s wearing black suit pants and a fitted business shirt that he looks absurdly good in.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving,” I admit.
“I’ll ask my housekeeper to prepare you a meal. She’ll have mine already waiting on the table by now.” He walks toward the other end of the house.
“Not Marcus?” I ask hopefully, trailing after him. I already know that the taste of that incredible chocolate soufflé is something I’ll be thinking about on my deathbed.
“Marcus only cooks dinners. My housekeeper makes my breakfast.”
We walk into a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the view over LA makes my breath catch. I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m pretty sure we’re higher up than I’ve ever been.
Leather couches are arranged in a u-shape to look out at the view, and coffee tables hold elegant lamps.
It’s white and black like his guest bedroom was, and impeccably tidy, like a room in a magazine.
I wander over to check out a lovely painting of a woman in a garden, and squint at the signature in the corner. Claude Monet? I’ve heard of that guy.
Ethan keeps walking into a dining room, and I follow.
A large wooden table is only set for one person.
Beside a covered plate of food is a tablet, propped up and waiting for him to use while he eats.
A blue rug and a large, vibrant painting of flowers lend the room splashes of color, but it still gives the impression of a hotel room.
“What would you like for breakfast?” Ethan asks. “Helena can make you anything.”
“What are you having?”
He pulls the cover off the plate to show his healthy-looking meal, gently steaming. “An egg white omelet. You want the same?”
“Sure. That sounds great.” I hesitate. “But would you please ask Helena to leave in the yolks in my omelet?”
“Sure.”
“And do you think she’d mind adding some flour to it?”
He frowns. “Flour?”
I nod. “And maybe she could fry the mixture in circles, then pour on some syrup?”
He cocks his head. “You want pancakes?”
I grin back at him. “Pancakes would be perfect. Thanks.”
“I’ll pass on your order.” He starts away, clearly intending for me to stay here, but I’m curious to see what the rest of the place is like.
“Wait. I’ll come with you.”
Through a connecting door is a huge, gleaming kitchen, where a sturdy, middle-aged woman is wiping down the counter. I smile and introduce myself, and when Ethan asks for pancakes, she says, “Of course, sir,” like it really isn’t any bother.
At the far end of the kitchen, I finally see something I wouldn’t be likely to find in a hotel room. There’s an entire wall of wine bottles in a giant rack. I try to estimate how many bottles he has, and there must be at least two hundred.
“You must really like wine,” I say to Ethan.
He shrugs. “These aren’t for drinking. They’re an investment.”
“Okay,” I say dubiously, wondering if he can really keep so much wine around and not get tempted to drink some. Did the delicious Chardonnay we had the other night come from this stash, or does he have even more bottles somewhere else?
He heads back to the dining room, and I follow. While he sits in front of his meal, I turn another of the chairs backward so I can sit more comfortably with my arms draped over the back of it.
“What a view,” I say, gazing out of the windows.
He nods, his phone in his hand. “I’ll get Rachel to come up here,” he says, tapping on his screen. “We should talk about the boxing match while we eat.”
Ugh.
He’s going to make me move the boxing match to another venue, and I’m going to have to agree.
After he’d left and I’d cooled down, I had to admit he could be right about the leaks.
If it rains, it’ll be a disaster. But I still hate the idea we can’t hold the fight in the gym.
Watching the matches Uncle Vito used to put on there was one of the highlights of my childhood… and those were in short supply.
“Fine,” I say. “But after breakfast, you have to tell me about Miles.” If I have to give up something, then he does too.
Helena brings in a steaming plate of delicious looking pancakes, with a selection of sides, and I thank her for going above and beyond. There’s not just syrup, but fresh berries, and even a thick chocolate sauce.
“I could get used to this,” I tell Ethan with delight. Then I tuck into the meal with relish, every bite making me moan with pleasure.
He barely eats at all. Instead he studies me, his eyes dark and his fork frozen in his hand, as though he’s forgotten about his own meal.
“I love watching you eat,” he says when I’m about halfway finished.
“You have such good food,” I mumble with my mouth full. “How did you get such amazing chefs?”
He shrugs. “What’s the point of having money if you can’t have the best?”
“In general, I’m against the practice of hoarding money,” I tell him. “But it can’t be all evil if you get to eat food this good.”
He frowns. “I’m not hoarding money.”
“You’re like a dragon on a pile of gold.” I grin. The sugar rush is hitting me, amplified by the good chemicals in my brain after a hard workout. “You’re sitting up here at the top of your tower. Ethan the fire-breather, making all the peasants below you tremble.”
“Roar,” he says in such a dry tone that I splutter a laugh and almost spray a mouthful of pancakes onto the table.
There’s a knock on the open dining room door, and I glance up to see Rachel coming in.
“Good,” Ethan says. “Now it’s time to work.”