“Do you cook?” I ask, running my palm over a sleek countertop.
“I cook breakfast pretty well. But, mostly, it’s my housekeeper, Amalia, who cooks in here. Caterers, too.”
“When is Amalia at the house, typically?”
“She stays overnight Monday through Thursday every week, unless I’ve told her to take off at five during any given week. Some weeks, I want complete privacy when I get home from work.”
I open my mouth to suggest perhaps this coming week should be one of those weeks of extra privacy, but the clever man beats me to the punch.
“Yes, Georgina. Of course, I’ve already told Amalia to take off at five every day this week. I had no choice, once I found out you’re a screamer. My house is big, but it’s not big enough to contain Georgina Ricci’s screams of ecstasy.”
I swat his shoulder. “I’ve never screamed like that with anyone but you.”
“Well, that’s a given.” He gestures for me to follow him. “The quicker we get through this tour, the quicker I’ll get to hear you scream again.”
He leads me through a set of French doors and around a corner, and, suddenly, we’re standing on a serene patio, complete with water features, twinkling lights, and manicured bushes and flowers.
“Am I dead?” I ask, looking around the peaceful space. “Is this heaven?”
Reed chuckles. “That’s what Henn’s wife, Hannah, said when she first saw this patio. That’s why I offered to host their wedding here—because Hannah loved it so much.”
“I can’t believe you let them have their wedding here. That was so generous.”
Reed shrugs it off. “All I did was open my house and wallet, and Hannah and her wedding consultant did the rest.”
“Wait, you paid for the wedding? I thought you meant you let them use your house for it—which, right there, would have been an incredibly generous thing to do.”
Reed pulls a face like that’s a ridiculous notion. “What kind of person says to his best friend, ‘Sure, you can use my house to marry the love of your life,’ but then doesn’t foot the bill?”
“Um, plenty of people say that. And I’m sure it’s very much appreciated.”
Reed waves at the air. “Go big or go home, baby. It’s one of my favorite mantras.” He points to my phone playfully. “Write that down, Intrepid Reporter. ‘Reed lives by the mantra, Go big or go home.’”
I roll my eyes. “I think I can remember you’re a big fan of ‘going big’ without writing it down.” I motion to our surroundings. “All I’ll have to do is look around me this week to remember that fact.”
“Suit yourself. I wouldn’t deign to tell a professional how to do her job.” He flashes me a charming smile. “Ready to move on?”
“Lead on.”
I follow Reed down a pathway, past a basketball court, and then past a beach-volleyball court, and a moment later, we’re standing next to an elegant black-bottom swimming pool overlooking the twinkling lights of Los Angeles.
“This is spectacular,” I say. “I love swimming—being weightless. If I lived here, I’d swim laps every day of my life. Or maybe, just come out here to float.”
“Feel free to use the pool any time you like. It’s heated.”
“Thank you. I’ll definitely take you up on that. Although, given that I didn’t pack a swimsuit, I think I’ll wait until after Amalia leaves each day. I wouldn’t want to give the poor woman an unexpected view of my ass.”
Reed arches his brow, his dirty thoughts etched all over his face. “As you wish. Full disclosure, though...” He gestures above us, to a second-story wall of windows. “That’s my bedroom right there. If I hear a splash, I’m gonna head straight to my window, hoping to see an unexpected view of your ass.”
“As you wish. As long as you join me after I’ve gotten my workout in.”
“No need to swim as your work out. I work out every morning, first thing. I was assuming my shadow would join me.”
“Oh, I love morning workouts. I taught some morning classes at the gym at UCLA.”
“You taught classes?”
I nod. “Spin and Pilates.”
He gestures to my body. “Well, that answers that question. Well, hell. If you like spin, you should try out my Peloton this week.”
“Oh! I’ve always wanted to try one.” I frown. “Except... shoot. I didn’t pack my cycling shoes, any more than a swimsuit... probably because I thought I’d be on the road this week with one of my favorite bands.”
Reed pulls out his phone, ignoring my snarky tone. “What’s your shoe size, Ricci?”
“Oh. No. I didn’t mean for you to—”
“I insist.”
“I can’t let you buy me cycling shoes, Reed.”
“Tell me your damned shoe size, or I’ll sic Amalia on you. And trust me, you don’t want a determined Amalia on your ass.”
Reluctantly, I tell Reed what he wants to know, and he places the order.