I snorted. Great prequalification criteria you have there, Eastwood. I wasn’t sure I had enough money to take the train uptown to get to that swanky place, much less buy it. God knows what I’d written that had qualified me.
I closed the website and was just about to shut my laptop and go back to bed again when I decided to take one more peek at Mr. Romantic on Facebook.
God, he was gorgeous.
What if . . .
I shouldn’t.
No good ever came out of ideas formulated while drunk.
I couldn’t.
But . . .
That face . . .
And that note.
So romantic. So beautiful.
Plus . . . I’d never seen the inside of a twelve-million-dollar penthouse.
I really shouldn’t.
Then again . . . I’d spent the last two years doing everything I should do. And where had that gotten me?
Right here. It’d gotten me right damn here—hungover and unemployed, sitting in this crappy apartment. Maybe it was time I did the things I shouldn’t be doing for a change. I picked up my phone and let my finger hover over the “Call Back” button for a while.
Screw it.
No one would ever know. It could be fun—getting all dressed up and playing the part of a rich Upper West Sider while satisfying my curiosity about the man. What harm was there?
None that I could think of. Still, you know what they say about curiosity . . .
I pressed “Call Back.”
“Hi. This is Charlotte Darling calling to confirm an appointment with Reed Eastwood . . .”CHAPTER 3
CHARLOTTE
“Feel free to start looking around, or you can stay here in the foyer—whichever you prefer. Mr. Eastwood is just finishing up with his previous appointment and should be with you shortly.”
Apparently it took more than one person to show a fancy penthouse. Not only was Reed Eastwood somewhere in the vicinity but a hostess was also assigned to greet me and hand me a glossy booklet with information on the property.
“Thank you,” I said before she disappeared.
I stood in the foyer, clutching my kelly-green Kate Spade purse that I’d scored in the clearance section of T.J.Maxx and feeling like this might’ve been a very big mistake.
I had to remind myself why I was here. What did I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. My life was a mess, and at the very least, I could satisfy my curiosity about the author of the blue note and put this whole thing to rest. I just needed to know what had become of him—of them—and I would be on my merry way.
Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. I could hear muffled talking on the other side of the space but hadn’t seen anyone emerge yet.
Then came the sound of footsteps echoing along the marble floor.
My heart beat faster, only to slow down again upon the sight of the hostess walking a wealthy-looking couple through the foyer and to the exit. No Reed Eastwood.
The woman, holding a tiny white dog, smiled at me before the three of them disappeared into the elevator.
Where is he?
For a moment, I wondered if he’d forgotten about me completely. It was so quiet. Was there a back exit? Even though I probably should have just stayed in the foyer, I decided to wander a bit and made my way into a grand library.
Dark, masculine wood lined the space. Open bookshelves covered every wall from floor to ceiling. Under my feet lay a Persian rug that likely cost more than I could make in an entire year.
The smell of old books was intoxicating. Meandering over to one of the shelves, I picked up the first one that caught my eye—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. I remembered hearing about this book in school years ago but couldn’t recall for the life of me what it was about.
“The first great American novel, depending on who you ask.”
My body shook at the sound of his deep, penetrating voice. It was the kind of voice that sliced right through you.
My hand over my chest, I turned around. “You scared me.”
“Did you think you were alone?”
I froze—absolutely froze—as I took him in. Reed Eastwood was as dark and intimidating as this room. One look, and my knees were shaking. He was even taller than I’d imagined, and he wore what I was certain had to be a dress shirt custom-tailored for him. It fit the curves of his chest like a glove. He also wore a bow tie and suspenders, which on anyone else might have been deemed nerdy. But on this man—on that muscular chest—they were incredibly sexy.
He just stood in the doorway, observing me and holding a folder. I thought that was kind of rude, but honestly, I had no experience in this scenario. Doesn’t a Realtor normally extend his hand to a client? Apologize for being late?
“Have you read it?” His voice once again vibrated through me.