“That’s unnecessary.” I have no intention of accepting his handouts. “Consider it my appreciation for how well the Eaton has taken care of me in the past.”
This pleases him to no end. He rises to his feet and shows us to the door. In the lobby, Luca smacks my arm. “You’re doing this for his thanks?”
“I owe him one,” I say darkly.
“Whatever.” Bored Luca has returned. He jerks a thumb toward the bar off the lobby. “Drink?”
“I have plans tonight.” I check my watch. “There isn’t time.”
“Dance card’s full, huh?”
“I was thinking you might like to join,” I say as he walks with me to the valet station. I hand them my slip. Malcolm had sounded reluctant when he’d called with the details and I’d asked to bring a guest to the gala. Once I’d assured him it wasn’t a woman, he’d agreed. Everyone is likely to be on their best behavior at the event tonight. Luca’s presence will provide some much-needed chaos.
“What do I have to do?” he asks.
I shrug, knowing exactly how to tempt him. “Drink too much and start shit. You game?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Twenty minutes later, I park the Vanquish in the private garage of Twelve and South. I’d closed on the penthouse over two weeks ago. Cash transactions move more quickly than financing, but I stayed at the Eaton until a professional decorator had finished the space to my preferences. Walking inside now, I know I made the right decision. It’s important to me to be seen, and one can’t help but be seen when half the walls are glass windows. But inside my house I want to feel free, not only of the expectations of others, but of myself.
The decor is simple—clean lines with nods to my travels. The walls have a fresh coat of bright paint and the wood floors are polished. Everything is arranged to my exacting specifications. An oversized abstract painting I purchased in Holland centers the lone living room wall. There’s an L-shaped couch in tan leather facing the window to the city below with two mid-century modern chairs opposite it and a live-edge coffee table stretching between them. The Persian wool rug, my concession to comfort, anchors the pieces.
The focal point of the master bedroom is a king bed on a low-rise platform with a simple wood headboard sourced from a local artisan. A single nightstand from the same maker sits to one side. Two night stands send the wrong message when a woman stays the night. The linens, a favorite, were imported from a London company that also supplies Buckingham Palace. Quality trumps quantity at every angle.
In the closet, my suits hang evenly spaced according to color. A gallery light illuminates a selection of neatly rolled silk ties on display next to them. My shoes, mostly Italian leather, have been polished and lined on an opposite rack. The chest of drawers is filled with silk pajama bottoms, jeans, t-shirts, and the rest of my private wardrobe.
But while most of the house is simple with a stress on minimalism and bespoke pieces, my favorite room is full to bursting: the kitchen. The cuisine at the Eaton was excellent, but it’s not a home-cooked meal. I’d learned the value of that in Francie’s cramped kitchen in Queens. I’d clung to it in the barracks in Iraq. Cooking has always been my sanctuary, and I spared no expense here. The high-gloss, white cabinets are fully stocked with stainless steel cookware and French enameled cast-iron pots. A column of drawers neatly house every possible utensil needed to create my favorite dishes. The espresso machine is imported from Italy. I’ve learned how to pull a proper shot over the years. I run my finger along the sharp edge of a Wüsthof knife longingly before returning it to its slot on the block. The kitchen will have to wait, unfortunately.
Tonight’s required tuxedo hangs in front of my suits, freshly pressed by the hotel staff this morning. Sometimes obligation gets in the way of pleasure — a truth I’ve known for a long time. At least, this evening, business and pleasure will definitely mix.
17
Adair
The Alumni Club at Valmont University caters to its privileged former students with a palatial private restaurant and ballroom near the campus’s football field. In the spring it’s rented for weddings and galas. I’ve been to a dozen private events here since I was a student. Tonight it feels like I’m going back in time, though, because it’s the first time I’m going to see Sterling Ford on the VU campus in years.
I almost hate to admit Poppy was right about the dress. I haven’t worn a silk gown since my jean size reached double digits. Usually it clings a bit too much to my hips. This dress skims over me, just closely enough to showcase my ample curves without making me feel self-conscious. It’s either made of magic or I’m officially delusional, but regardless, I don’t care.
Less glamorous is the box of dog treat cookies I’m lugging into the kitchen in my Louboutins. Trust Poppy to remember what she’d previously forgotten at the last second. She meets me at the door, grabs the cookies, and deposits them with a passing volunteer. Poppy, never one to shy away from color, is radiant in a green satin gown that twists over one shoulder. Matching emerald earrings dangle from diamond hooks, nearly reaching her shoulder. They sparkle against the black curtain of hair that swings freely down her back. I’m about to compliment her when she grabs my arm and drags me into a walk-in pantry.
“He’s here,” she informs me in a low voice like the walls might be listening. “Cyrus saw him.”
“So?” I pretend this news doesn’t send my stomach plummeting to
