It had been a long, exhausting trip. Winnie had almost missed her transfer in Atlanta because of weather, and the flight to New York had nearly been diverted for the same reason. But it had gone ahead after all, and now, finally, she was here.

Leaving the baggage claim, she wheeled her suitcase toward the terminal exit, unsure of what to expect. MeetYourMate had given her flight details to Weston Croft, but she had no idea whether he was meeting her or if she was just supposed to take a taxi to his apartment. She was so nervous about something going wrong or losing his information that she’d committed his address to memory, the eleventh floor of 820 Fifth Avenue.

“The eleventh floor,” she whispered to herself. “820 Fifth Avenue. The eleventh floor. 820 Fifth Avenue.”

Suddenly, she startled. There, in the crowd, was an impeccably-appointed driver holding her name on a sign. Had Weston Croft seriously sent a white-gloved limo to pick her up? Seriously?

“Excuse me . . .?” she said uncertainly. “That’s my name, sir.”

“You’re Miss Wednesday?” the man asked. “I thought you must be. You look like the photo I was given.”

Winnie’s face burned. “Are you . . . where are you taking me?”

“To Mr. Croft’s apartment on Fifth Avenue.”

Her pulse jumped. This was the right ride, after all. “What’s it like, sir? Have you seen it?”

“His building? Sure, I have. It’s gorgeous. Can I take your bags?”

This is real. This is real. This is really happening.

“Can I have a moment, please? To go to the bathroom?” Her mouth was dry. “I must look a bit of a mess.”

“Oh, it won’t matter, Miss,” the driver said. “Mr. Croft won’t be home until late. Nine or so, he said. You can freshen up at his place.” He gazed at Winnie for a moment. “You don’t look like a mess anyway, if I can say so. Shall we go?”

What if the driver was wrong? What if Croft was there? She was sure she did look a mess, whatever he said. Air travel was never kind to a girl’s presentation.

“Please, I just . . . I need to use the bathroom. Can I? I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Leave the bags with me.”

She hurried off, cutting through the press of people. As soon as she was in the ladies’ room, she went right to an open sink and stared into the huge, fingerprinted mirror.

Croft was for real, and he was rich, really rich—richer than she’d thought. That much was clear. He was a genuine business big-wig who could pay for ritzy limousines and whole-floor apartments. She was just a simple girl, from a simple place . . . a place she loved and understood, unlike this city. What was she doing here? This was a horrible idea.

No. Stop! Croft approved you. He’s interested in you, she reminded herself forcefully. And you’re interested in him. Very interested. Don’t be afraid of him, Winnie. He wants the same things you want.

Money doesn’t make him better than you. Don’t let a limo freak you out. He’s just being a good host by sending a car. He’s not trying to intimidate you. Give him a chance. Give yourself a chance. Calm down. You can do this.

Carefully, she redrew her very subtle eyeliner, a light, natural brown, and reapplied her lip gloss. The gloss was a nice touch. It made her naturally pouty mouth even more luscious, even more kissable. Sometimes, even she wanted to kiss herself when she had gloss on. Hopefully, Croft would too.

Hopefully.

A thin snow was starting to fall as the car inched up traffic-choked Fifth Avenue. Winnie stared out her tinted window at the bare trees of Central Park and the jacketed, scarf-wearing pedestrians on the streets. Late October was much colder up North than it was down South. She hoped she’d brought warm enough clothes.

“Here it is, Miss,” the driver said suddenly. “On your left.”

She shifted across the seat—and gasped.

820 Fifth Avenue was an immaculate limestone palazzo, twelve stories tall. Its canopied entrance was flanked by flawless Japanese cherry trees, and a manicured hedge ran along the front of the building. She could see doormen waiting inside. One was rushing to get her as the limo double-parked outside.

“It’s a nice place, isn’t it?” the driver asked. “Right across from the zoo, too. Central Park Zoo. I’ll help you with your bags.”

The driver came around and opened her door just as the doorman arrived with an umbrella against the wet, chilling snow. In a daze, she was led inside to the beautiful atrium. The driver came after her with her things, sent them upstairs with an attendant, and refused a tip.

“Mr. Croft’s taken care of it. You have a pleasant stay, Miss.”

She couldn’t believe this. She couldn’t believe where she was. It was like she was in Gossip Girl or Sex in the City or–or something, like she was living in a fantasy. When the desk guards checked her ID, wrote her in their log, and then sent her up to the eleventh floor, she had to pinch herself.

Okay. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is unreal.

And then—Ding.

The elevator attendant unlocked Croft’s suite, warmly ushered her into the hall, and then disappeared downstairs in the lift. She was left standing alone in the fanciest apartment she’d ever seen or dreamed of.

“Oh. My. Gosh.”

There was an elegance to this place that she’d never seen before. The wooden parquet floor her bags were left on looked like it was worth more than her house. Amazing art was hung on the walls. Shyly, she crept forward and began to explore.

The molding was beautiful. All the rooms were corniced, and all the windows and doors were trimmed. The living room—she guessed it was the living room, because it had a beautiful old fireplace and chairs and sofas and things, but the apartment was so palatial that there might be more living rooms—was gorgeous, with views over the park. She admired the barren trees, the walkways, and the little bundled-up people down below, then went and sat lightly on one of the couches. It was off-white with a plush pillow-back design and faced toward the grate. What should she do now? Just . . . wait?

“I thought I heard the elevator!”

Winnie jumped about a foot. It was a woman’s voice, an older woman in pressed dark clothes with a warm face.

“Are you Miss Wednesday?” she asked. “I’m Annika Olafsdottir. I’m one of the maids. Mr. Croft said he was expecting a visitor, but the desk didn’t call up. It’s unusual for them to forget these things. Maybe they thought I had already gone for the day.”

“H–hello,” Winnie said, flustered. She got to her feet. “Yes, I’m Miss Wednesday. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, Miss.” Annika smiled. “Come, let’s put your things in your room. Then I could make you a snack, hmm? The cook’s not here just yet, but I make very good stuffed peppers. You must have come right from the airport. I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Annika lugged Winnie’s big bag down a hall, with Winnie following and carrying her smaller bag. She had another Is this happening moment when she saw where she’d be staying. Words failed her.

“Is it all right?” Annika asked cheerfully. “There are three others spare. Mr. Croft thought you would like this one, though. It’s a nice room, I think. It has its own bathroom.”

Calling it a “nice room” seemed like an understatement to Winnie. There was a beautifully upholstered bed with a padded, princessy headboard, a plush white carpet underfoot, and drapes on the windows like crushed silk. The furniture was ecru-colored and Victorian-styled, and a vase full of fresh pink roses sat on the nightstand. Winnie was biting her lip so hard she realized she might start bleeding if she didn’t let up.

“Is it acceptable?” Annika asked.

“It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” Winnie managed. She was starting to feel severely underdressed in her long quilted coat. “I’m speechless, Annika. It’s so . . . it’s so classy.”

Annika smiled. “I’ll give you a moment to get settled. I must watch my granddaughter at seven, so I must go, but I’ll make you some peppers before I go. Would that be all right?”

“You don’t have to make me anything! I don’t want you to be late. How old is your granddaughter?” Winnie asked, untying her jacket’s waist. “I have a niece who’s four. She’s a peach.”

“Mathilda is seven, and for sure a peach,” Annika said pleasantly. “It’s no trouble to fix you something, Miss Wednesday. I already prepared the mix to stuff my peppers with—ground chicken, corn, garlic, cumin, black pepper, and paprika. Would you like that?”

“It sounds amazing,” Winnie admitted. “Um . . . I have to tell you, I’m not used to being waited on.”

“Please relax,” Annika said gently. “And don’t worry. I’ll fix a plate of my peppers for you. Come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”

“Well . . . okay,” Winnie said, glancing around. She thought about the dress she’d packed to wear tonight and felt, stupidly, embarrassed. “Annika, uh . . . how nicely do you think . . . I mean, what would you say is appropriate for me to wear this evening?”

Annika gazed at her for a long, calming moment. “You’re a very pretty girl, Miss. You can wear whatever you’d like.” Then she smiled and was gone.

Winnie closed the door, unzipped her big bag, and pulled out her dress, her best shoes, and her hair and makeup items. Then she went to the bathroom to check it out. It was, unsurprisingly, another flawless space, a confection of molding, marble, and porcelain. The view out the window was dizzying. The lights in the city were coming on.

She gave herself a long, critical look in the mirror. She looked a little travel-worn, and frankly, a little greasy, greasier than she had at the airport. She’d have to have a quick shower after she ate her snack. Setting her cosmetic travel bags on the sink corner, she splashed some water on her face and then went looking for the kitchen.

It was easy to find, following the smell. Annika had her sit at a marble island and dished her up a fine helping of delicious-looking peppers.

“I must go,” she said, smiling. “Leave your dishes and they’ll be taken care of.”

“Annika, wait. Can I ask—um—what is Mr. Croft like?” Winnie asked, getting a gentle hold of Annika’s arm. “I’ve never met him. Like. Ever.”

“Well, Miss, I don’t know him very well,” Annika said, setting a cup she’d filled with pomegranate juice for Winnie down. “I can say he treats the suite staff very well. He is fair, respectful, and clear in his directions. I hope you will have a nice evening together. I think he makes good conversation at dinners.”

Winnie flushed. “I don’t know if I can return good conversation. Is there, like, a New York Times lying around somewhere? I may need to poach some topics.”

Annika laughed. “You’ll be fine. I must go now. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

Winnie let go. “Thank you. Thanks for everything, Annika.”

Annika smiled and disappeared. Winnie could hear her walking through the apartment and, far away, putting on her coat and gathering up her bag. It made her feel lonely and nervous when she heard the elevator doors open and close. She was alone now.

Alone and waiting for Croft.