I’ve never seen two people more devoted to each other than they are.
Dylan yanks two bottles of beer from the case, handing me one. “So you’re actually going to live here?”
I unscrew the cap and take a swig from the bottle. “Yep.”
He gives the room another full glance. “You like this?”
I get where the question is coming from. I lived in a one-bedroom, eight hundred square foot walk-up in Chicago. It wasn’t in the best neighborhood. It could have used a few coats of paint on the walls, and the oven didn’t work, but it was home.
I saved for the down payment. I negotiated the mortgage. I owned the place.
I still do. I’ll hand the keys to a friend in real estate the next time I’m back in the Windy City so he can list it. Manhattan is home now.
“It’s rent free,” I point out with a lift of my bottle in the air. “And it’s close to the office.”
Dylan huffs out a laugh. “You’re two minutes away from your office. You can’t beat that in this city.”
My gaze wanders to the plant on the table. “You can take that with you when you leave.”
“I found it in the lobby.” He shakes his head. “You need to fire whoever is in charge of keeping plants alive in this building.”
“My assistant will handle it.”
“Your assistant,” he repeats my words with a cock of his dark brows. “You always called Julia by name, so I take it she didn’t want to drop everything in Chicago to move here with you?”
I tried. Jesus did I try to convince my executive assistant to pick up her life and follow me to Manhattan. She wasn’t buying what I was selling. That included a substantial raise, a moving allowance, and tickets to every goddamn Broadway musical that’s playing.
I thought the show tunes she hummed every day were a clue to her weakness. It turns out I don’t know shit about music because it’s the opera that owns her heart.
She took early retirement and jetted off to London with her husband of thirty years for a performance at the Royal Opera House. I doubt like hell she’ll be back anytime soon.
“I have a new assistant.” I take a seat on one of the uncomfortable white leather armchairs that flank the hard-as-hell black leather sofa in the room. “Isabella Calvetti.”
Dylan drops onto the sofa. “For fuck’s sake, I think I broke my ass.”
Comfort takes a back seat to stylish design when you’re Ivan Garent. He picked out, personally approved, and paid for everything in this place right down to the gold utensils in the kitchen drawer.
When he offered me the keys I snatched them up without a second thought.
“Calvetti?” Dylan mumbles Isabella’s surname. “Like the Italian restaurant?”
I nod. “She’s the owner’s granddaughter.”
“Wait.” He cocks his head to the side. “Are you talking about Bella Calvetti?”
“She’s my executive assistant. You know her?”
The concept is foreign to me, but it shouldn’t be. Dylan has lived in Manhattan for years. Isabella must know hundreds, if not thousands, of people on this island.
“She took me for five hundred bucks.” He holds up two fingers. “Twice.”
That’s a story that I want to hear. “Details, Colt. I want details.”
He tugs his phone from his pocket when it chimes. “Give me two minutes. I ordered a pizza. It’s here.”
I’m in. It’s nearing nine p.m. and the last time I ate was shortly after noon at Crispy Biscuit.
Dylan slides to his feet. “The security guard in the lobby is sending the delivery guy up. Crack open another couple of beers, and I’ll tell you everything I know about your new assistant.”