20
Samaera
When we walkinto the lobby, I realize Precious Kitty Publishing and Bastian's office doesn't reflect his opulent position in life. The Bugatti Veyron hinted at it, but it's just a car. Central Park Tower, however, concretely confirms his billionaire status.
What is happening right now? I ask myself as he leads me to the elevator. My eyes are like sponges, taking in everything.
A gigantic chandelier bathes the entire lobby in gold. There is a lounge area and a concierge counter. Even a full-size bear rug splays on the floor.
Once we're inside, I ask. "What floor do you live on?"
"One hundred and twenty-three."
"Am I gonna get a nosebleed?"
"Are you prone to nosebleeds?" He looks at me, concerned.
"No, but…." I laugh nervously. He squeezes my hand for comfort and doesn't bother to sell me on it.
When we arrive, we step off the elevator into a simple but elegant foyer. There are two condos on the floor. Bastian lives in 123E. When he opens the door, and leads me inside, I stop dead in my tracks. The huge living room is floor to ceiling windows. "Wow," comes out as a whisper.
He drops my hand, unbuttons his suit coat, then loosens his tie, pulling it out of the collar as he strides across the room, causing the automatic lights to trigger, flooding the room with soft ambient uplighting, and carefully placed overhead recessed spotlights. The living area contains an extremely long, comfy-looking sectional sofa that has its back to the windows. Facing it are two normal-sized couches flanked with multiple comfortable cushy individual chairs and small coffee tables. Rugs line the floor between the pieces of furniture.
It's inviting without being too formal. He tosses his suit jacket and tie on the back of one of the chairs, continuing across the room. He passes a grand piano, then a formal dining room table with twelve straight-back creme trimmed with gold cord fabric-covered chairs and an extravagant gold leaf chandelier to arrive at a long buffet-style credenza located on the far wall. On one end, dinnerware, plates, and glasses are staged. Lining the other end are several rows of bottles of liquor, i.e., whiskey, gin, and brandy.
Frozen to the spot, terrified to move, I stand here feeling out of place. Afraid my knees won't hold me if I cross the distance alone. I wait for him to return. His tall physique is highlighted by the high ceiling. He is at home here.
He turns from the bar with two drinks to the sitting area. He doesn't speak again until he's in the living room space. "Come on in. Make yourself at home. I've got Crown Apple on the rocks to calm your nerves."
I lick my dry lips as I walk to him. He holds the glass out, and my shaking hand takes it. I lift it to drink without waiting for him. Needing liquid courage to settle my nerves. "Thank you."
Cold goes in, and warmth hits the bottom.
"Better?" He asks. His eyes both amused and concerned at the same time.
"Yes." I take a deep breath and smile at him.
"Would you like to sit?"
"No…." I eye the furniture suspiciously. "I'll stand for now."
He plops down on the sectional and gets comfortable.
I stare out at the skyline of Manhattan sprawled along the entire width of the room. It's too beautiful. "How big is your apartment?"
"There are four bedrooms and five and a half bathrooms. A kitchen, an office, a library, and a playroom."
The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up, and my voice cracks when I ask, "Playroom?"
He glances at me. "Are you okay?"
"What kind of playroom?"
He chuckles, "Not that kind of playroom, naughty girl. I'm not Christian Grey. It's Precious Kitty's domain."
My face goes scarlet red. "Oh." I take another hit from my drink to recover from my blunder. "How many square feet?"
"The playroom or the condo?" He chuckles again. Obviously, enjoying my embarrassment.
