I lean into him as we step into the private elevator, resting my head against his shoulder. Right now, I’m not just visiting Nick’s world. I’m proving to everyone that I belong in it.
When we enter the penthouse, my jaw practically hits the polished marble floor.
Floor-to-ceiling glass stretches across the entire far wall. Central Park is spread out below like a dark velvet blanket framed in the city’s lights. Skyscrapers blink in every direction, neon and glass colliding in a skyline I’ve only ever seen in movies.
Nick’s hand is warm at the small of my back.
“Welcome to Park Towers,” he says casually, like he didn’t just bring me into a space most people would sell their souls to have.
I drift closer to the windows, nearly stunned. “This is …”
He gives one of his trademark shrugs, downplaying it. “It’s not bad.”
I whip around. “Not bad? It’s like you have the entire world laid out at your feet.”
I try to drink in his space. Minimalist furniture is arranged in perfect symmetry. I can’t imagine how expensive the art is hanging on the wall. This place is beautiful, but it’s more like a museum than a home—untouched and curated.
Then my eyes scan the kitchen, and I squeal when I see the stainless steel espresso machine on the counter.
“Oh my God.” I rush across the sleek floor and stop dead in front of a gleaming machine that resembles a NASA control panel than a household appliance. “Holy shit.”
Nick follows me and leans against the counter, arms folded. “I wondered if you’d notice.”
“This is a La Marzocco with custom mod panels and a straight-in portafilter. You can literally lock in a shot with one hand, not tomention the steam flush. And you have an automatic drip prediction feature!”
Nick’s brows lift. “Really? That’s a thing?”
I’m half offended, half giddy. “It’sthething. This is basically the Ferrari of espresso machines. The absolute best of the best.”
He watches me like I made his night. “Want me to prepare something for you?”
I arch a brow. “You? Pulling a shot on this machine?”
“When you buy one of these, they train you on how to use it,” he explains. “I’m a professional at this point.”
I bite back a grin. “Oh, please show me.”
He clicks it on, and after a few minutes, he hands me a tiny porcelain cup. The crema is golden and perfect. I take a sip, close my eyes, and moan out loud.
His sharp intake of breath has me focusing on him.
“Jeez, Jules,” he mutters. “You can’t make sounds like that in my kitchen.”
I grin. “This is great. Too bad you already have a job. I’d hire you at the shop.”
He takes a sip from my cup, his eyes never leaving mine, like it’s not just coffee we’re sharing, but a secret vow. “It’s perfect. Like you.”
Later, I curl up, barefoot, in the wide window nook and stare down at Central Park at night below me. The city feels alive, pulsing, but somehow quiet from up here. Experiencing New York like this makes it less intimidating.
Nick leans against the frame, watching me instead of the skyline. His expression is unreadable, but soft around the edges in a way I don’t see often.
“What?” I ask, reaching for him.
That rare smile tugs at his lips. “This is the first time this place has ever felt like home.”
I blink up at him. “Right now? Like in this very moment?”
He nods, eyes steady on me. “It’s you, Jules. You make every space I’m in feel like sunshine.”
