“Sure. Well, let’s do this.” In a flash, the serious expression on his face morphs into the confident grin I’m so used to seeing, and he slides out of the car without another word.
I climb out after him and he walks us toward the elevator. He introduces me to Mr. Williams, they chat briefly about sporting something or other, and then we’re in an elevator rocketing up, up, up.
“What floor are you on?” I ask, while fiddling with my phone.
“Thirty-second.”
“How many floors are in this thing?”
His grin is cocky. “Thirty-two.”
My jaw drops. “You grew up in a penthouse apartment?”
“Penthouse condo.”
“Good lord. No wonder you’re such a pretentious ass.”
“I am not pretentious.”
“Maybe not,” I wave him off and continue, “but you’re definitely overconfident in all things and don’t understand the word no.” I side-eye him. “All signs of a spoiled brat.”
He just smiles and takes a step toward me. “I wouldn’t say my confidence is unreasonable, Sundance. I seem to remember a few times when you benefited from my cocksure attitude.”
He accentuates the K sound, drawing it out like it’s two words, and my breath catches. I’m just about to pop off when the elevator opens into an elegant foyer with marble flooring and a small table with a large crystal vase holding a bouquet of colorful flowers.
Riggs leads me toward a coat closet, and I take off my shoes and jacket just like he does, hanging the jackets on hangers and placing the shoes on a little shoe shelf. Cute. When he heads down a long, wide hallway, I follow, taking time to study the large, greyscale family portraits that hang on the walls.
On every canvas, the Stantons look magazine-level perfect. Happy, smiling, gorgeous. Riggs as a boy, wearing a turtleneck and tiny chinos. As a teen, a button down, tie, and slacks. His eyes glittering, his straight white teeth showing. His mom’s smile is exactly like his in every photo. It’s obvious to see where he gets his looks. His chocolate brown eyes, his dark wavy hair. His full lips. Only the strong jaw and broad-shouldered build are from his dad. Everything else is all Odette DuPont Stanton.
My eyes land on the last canvas and stick—Riggs wearing a Butler University baseball uniform, standing on the pitcher’s mound, and a stadium of people blurred out in the background. His firm ass is outlined in his uniform pants in a way that makes my nipples tighten. His arm is bent, his bicep bulging. His hair is short, curling out just over his ears under his ball cap, and his profile is serious. He’s focused. He’s determined. He’s fucking sexy.
Damn it all to hell.
A throat clears to my right, and I’m jerked out of my reverie. I whip around to find Riggs watching me with his arms crossed, stupid cocky smirk on his full lips and heat in his eyes. I hold his gaze for a moment before the backdrop catches my attention.
“Holy shit.” I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows and look out at the sparkling buildings, across to the lakefront, then to the Chicago River below. “This view is incredible.”
“Wait till you see it from the terrace.”
“You have a flipping terrace?” Jesus Lord, this is how the top one percent lives, huh? I look around at the huge living area and the gorgeous Christmas tree with white lights and red ornaments. “This has to be like a million-dollar piece of real estate.”
“Try six.”
Record. Freaking. Scratch.
“What! Now I don’t even want to touch anything. Six million freaking dollars? Your living room is bigger than my whole damn house back home. It’s like a sky mansion.”
He laughs at me. “You want a tour?”
“Hell no, I do not want a tour. I’m hyperventilating just from this. If I see the rest of it right now, I might pass out.”
Part of me wants to ask why we’re staying in a hotel when he lives in a castle, but I hold my tongue. If it’s because of his mom’s illness, I don’t want to put him on the spot, and if it’s because he just doesn’t want me in such a personal space...well, I’d rather not know. It’s probably better anyway, because at least at the hotel I’m not afraid to touch things.
I’m brought out of my thoughts by Riggs’s laughter. His booming, rolling voice vibrates right through me, and his eyes are shimmering with water. I feel that laugh in my gut, and I have the weird desire to breathe it in. To drink it—to rub it onto my skin like lotion. My mind wants to be captivated by him, and it pisses me off.
“Shut up,” I growl. “Just show me the damn kitchen.”
He jerks his head to the side, then turns and walks in that direction. I trail after him, and when we turn a corner into the kitchen, I literally cannot breathe. Like, all the oxygen in the room is gone and I’m just a gasping, gaping lunatic.
“Oh my gawd,” I whisper, and run my hands over the smooth white countertop of one of the islands. Because there are freaking two. “Is this granite?”
“Quartz.”
“Hmmm.” I walk between the islands, identical except one of them has a sink and a six-burner cooktop. The cabinetry is white with silver finishes, and the french door refrigerator and dual double ovens are stainless steel. I’m admiring the clean, white subway tiled backsplash when I feel Riggs come up behind me.
“You gonna come just from touching it, Barnes?”
I swallow hard, then force a laugh and step away from him to hide my reaction. “You wish.”
He just hums, low and long, and I refuse to look at him.
“Should we get started?” I say to my hands. His chuckle pisses me off yet again.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
Surprisingly,or maybe not at all, Riggs’s pantry has almost every ingredient on our list. Not mawa, but we have everything we need to make it.
I’m stuffing our homemade mawa into eight fresh Chum Chum when a woman, probably in her forties, comes into the kitchen. She’s wearing purple scrubs, her black hair is pulled into a bun, and there’s a tired smile on her face. This must be Riggs’s mom’s nurse.
“Riggs,” she greets, “I thought I heard you still out here.”
“Hey, Ms. Beth.” Riggs smiles back then gestures to me. “This is Bailey. She’s doing the holiday baking competition with me.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ms. Beth says to me, and her words are warm and genuine. I like her.
“You, too. Thank you for letting us use the kitchen.”