“Yes, she probably would be. Because you’re clearly meant for more than this. But you’ve got to start somewhere, right? And whether you choose to reveal your struggles when you do make it big, Bayli, depends on the type of image you want to reflect to the public. But in private … there’s no shame in admitting this is where you live, or that you need a job in order to fund your dream. You’re not the first, you know?”
She swiped a wayward tear from her cheek. “That’s a really nice thing to say to someone like me.”
He let out a frustrated sound. “Don’t categorize yourself. I didn’t get where I am without a hell of a lot of hard work … and help when I needed it most.”
Bayli gave a fragile smile. “I suppose you might think sharing that with the world would undermine your power. I’m not sure it would.”
She turned and pushed open the door.
Christian’s gut knotted at her insightfulness, but when he followed her into her apartment he instantly grinned—genuinely, not just for effect or to make her feel better.
“This is fantastic,” he assured her.
The entire place sparkled—just like Bayli Styles.
* * *
Bayli had been rife with anxiety over foiling her own earlier fabrication and giving Christian all of these personal details of her life.
And then he’d grinned.
Her anxiety faded. Her heart fluttered.
He took the place in with a blatantly assessing eye, nodding, earnestly making it appear as though all the effort she’d put into sprucing the place up was worthwhile.
After the massive bug bombing, which had extended down the hallway to the garbage chute, she’d ensured the place was spic-and-span and then bought several gallons of glossy white paint to slap on the walls and the faux fireplace.
She’d ordered furniture and accessories online—because Target was all she could afford and they’d offered free shipping on the larger items. A chocolate-colored rectangular area rug with golden scrolls covered the scuffed hardwood floor. Battery-operated pillar candles accented the mantle and hearth. She’d also purchased a spa-blue tufted love seat and a white Roman shade with sheers and a draping scarf bordering it to enhance a window that looked out on a boring gray brick wall five or so feet away.
There were framed prints to match the décor and she’d installed alabaster-painted shelves at varying levels for her favorite books and round, squat vases filled with fake blooms.
“This is really very nice,” Christian said.
Relief washed over her. “Thank you.” She grabbed her casual wear from the armoire and told him, “I’ll just be a minute. I need to get out of these shoes.”
She ducked into the bathroom and changed into a white T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and had “Wake Me in Paris” elegantly scrawled across it in shimmering gold. She added white short-shorts and then hung up her dress and put away her high heels.
In the tiny, open kitchen she retrieved a bottle of water, poured two glasses, and handed one to Christian.
She didn’t bother giving the five-cent tour of the place. It was all laid out before their eyes.
“Here’s to your own little slice of New York,” he toasted her.
“It’s something I’ve wanted for a very long time. I’m willing to pay my dues.”
“People who are usually find themselves richly rewarded.”
Bayli smiled softly. “We’ll see if I follow suit.”
“I have no doubt.”
His sincere look and the admiration in his eyes tugged at her heartstrings. For someone so far out of her league and tax bracket, Christian Davila did not make her feel inferior to him. He made her feel hopeful, optimistic that the efforts she expended to succeed truly would pay off in the end. And that meant a hell of a lot to her.
So much so that another tear welled in her eye and crested the rim.
“Hey.” He set his glass on the mantle and then did the same with hers. His thumb swept over her cheek. “I had no intention of making you cry, sweetheart.”
“I know. It’s just…” She gave a small shrug and sniffled. Laughed lightly at her unexpected emotional state. “You’ve been very kind to me. I appreciate it.”