Prologue Daisy #3
We ride in silence. The penthouse is in a building downtown, all glass and steel and a lobby with a waterfall feature that seems aggressively unnecessary. Adam nods at the doorman and leads me to a private elevator that requires a key card and a code.
The doors open onto a living space that feels like a museum: minimalist furniture, white walls, huge windows overlooking the city. Beautiful and completely devoid of warmth. A staircase rises beside the hall to the bedrooms and a terrace; a smaller room with a bay window is on this floor.
"The guest room is upstairs, end of the hall," Adam says, gesturing. "The kitchen is through there. I have calls to make. Help yourself to anything you need."
"Wait."
He pauses at the threshold of what must be his office.
"Aren't you going to...?" I don't know how to finish. Show me around? Acknowledge the insanity of what we just did?
"Going to what?"
"Never mind."
He nods and disappears into the office. The door closes with a soft click.
I stand in the middle of his cold, beautiful living room and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into. My phone buzzes, a text from my best friend Nell, asking if I want to grab dinner. I can't begin to figure out how to answer. This is my life now. For five years, this will be my life.
Three hours later, I've claimed the guest room, put down my bag, and eaten leftover roast chicken from Adam's suspiciously well-stocked refrigerator. He's still in his office. I haven't seen him since we arrived.
I find the main bedroom by accident, looking for a bathroom. It's huge: California king bed, more windows, an en suite that's bigger than my entire apartment bathroom. On the nightstand, a single book. Some kind of dense economics text with a bookmark near the beginning.
"Ms. Williams."
I spin. Adam is in the doorway, suit jacket gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The tattoos are more visible now: geometric patterns, something that might be equations, a series of interlocking shapes I can't quite parse.
"I was looking for the bathroom," I say.
"Down the hall, third door."
"Right. Sorry." I edge past him, careful not to brush against his arm in the narrow space. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine."
We stand there, awkward, two strangers who happen to be legally married.
"I should..." I gesture vaguely toward my room.
"I'll carry you across the threshold," he says.
I stare at him. "What?"
"It's traditional." His face is still unreadable, but his voice tips toward uncertain. "Isn't it?"
"We already came inside."
"We could go out and come back in."
"That seems..." I search for the right word. "Excessive."
"Probably." He doesn't move.
Neither do I.
"Okay," I say finally. "But if you drop me, I'm annulling this whole thing."
The corner of his mouth twitches again. That almost-smile. "Noted."
We walk back to the front door. He opens it, and I step into the hallway, feeling ridiculous. When I turn back, he's standing in the doorway with his arms slightly extended, like a man who's never carried another human being and isn't entirely sure of the mechanics.
"I'm going to lift you now," he says.
"Thanks for the warning."
He scoops me up with surprising ease, those shoulders aren't just for show, and steps forward. His forehead connects solidly with the top of the doorframe.
"Shit." He stumbles slightly, catching himself, and I grab his shoulder to keep from falling. A small cut opens just above his eyebrow, blood beading along the skin.
"Oh my God." I'm half laughing, half horrified. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." He sets me down gently. "I'm fine. That was—" He touches the cut, looks at the blood on his fingers with an expression of profound annoyance. "I apologize. I should have measured."
"You should have measured the doorframe before carrying your wife across the threshold?"
"Yes."
He says it so seriously that I laugh again, and this time it's real, actual amusement instead of hysteria or reflex, at this enormous, awkward man standing in his expensive penthouse with blood dripping down his face.
"Sit down," I say. "I'll get something for that."
I find a first aid kit in the bathroom, of course it's meticulously organized, and return to find him sitting on the edge of the sofa, still touching the cut like he can't believe it happened.
"Hold still." I press a gauze pad to his forehead. He winces slightly. "Big scary CEO, taken down by his own doorframe."
"It's not usually a problem."
"How often do you carry women across thresholds?"
"This is the first time."
Our eyes meet. His are dark, unreadable, but there's a look in them I haven't seen before, uncertainty, maybe. Vulnerability. The blood has stopped, but I don't move my hand.
"Well," I say softly. "Now you know. Measure first."
"I'll remember that."
I pull back. Clear my throat. "You should probably put a bandage on that."
"Probably." He doesn't move.
"I'm going to bed," I say. "Guest room. My room. Whatever we're calling it."
He nods. "Goodnight, Ms. Williams."
"Daisy," I correct. "We're married. You can use my name."
"Goodnight, Daisy."
I make it to the hallway before I look back. He's still sitting there, gauze pad pressed to his forehead, watching me go.
I could love this one, I think.
Someday.