Claire
The hallway is narrow, and Ainsley leads the way with me behind her and Rafe bringing up the rear. It’s well-lit but not overly bright, and the low-pile carpeting is thick enough to muffle our footfalls. I can see where the renovation left some of the details from the original building, like the crown molding and exposed brick at the ends of the hallways.
“So on this side,” Ainsley says, “there are two apartments on either side of the elevator, one small and one about double that. And then on the other side, there’s three on either side of the stairwell, all about the same size.” We stop at the last doorway on the right-hand side of the hall. 2A. “This is one of the smaller units.”
“Well,” I say, “there’s only one of me.”
Ainsley punches some numbers in on the lockpad, and pushes the door open. We all step in.
The little entryway is small, but Ainsley steps forward into the kitchen area and Rafe stays in the hall for the moment. To my left is a pocket door, currently slid open, and it’s huge. Easily big enough for two people to stand in, with wide-spaced shelving on one wall and hooks on the other.
“I think the bedroom in my first New York apartment was smaller than that,” Ainsley says. Her voice echoes a little; the entryway opens up to one large area with a kitchen transitioning to the living space, and the tall ceilings and wood floors bounce the sound back. “The bathroom was about the size of a shower stall—and it included the shower stall.”
“Mine, too,” I say. I join her in the kitchen area, and I’m immediately overwhelmed. Long granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, a wine fridge, and way more storage than I’ve ever seen in an apartment kitchen. The two-level center island has a second sink and two-burner warming station on the kitchen side, and a breakfast bar with four tall barstools on the far side. “Okay, this is way too much kitchen for me.”
“What do you mean?” Ainsley asks.
“Everything I know how to cook comes in a flimsy cardboard box—or a can.” I wander over and open a cabinet below one of the counters. It has shelves that pull out on casters. The drawer above it has custom inserts—for cans, as it happens. I laugh. “I guess I can put my soup in here.”
“Seems to me you can heat up soup in here as well as anywhere else,” Ainsley says, shrugging.
I don’t reply, moving slowly around the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers. Wasn’t one of my resolutions Learn to cook? Here’s a perfect opportunity. I could fill these cabinets. Buy some spices. Learn how to … I don’t know … mince, or dice, or something.
Julienne.
And it’s two birds with one stone, really, if I learn to cook in my new apartment.
I turn. The living space is cavernous, with wood floors and tall ceilings, and extra-long windows looking out onto the back and side of the building. There’s a door that leads out onto what I assume must be a fire escape. I can’t see out there, but in the daytime this room will obviously get a lot of sun. Rafe and Ainsley are standing at the far side of the room, near the other door. He’s listening to something she’s saying, his head lowered close to hers and one hand on her hip; her hand is casually resting on his arm as she smiles up at him. They make my heart squeeze a litte.
My boss was a real dick, once. And then … there was Ainsley. The thing I see in his eyes when he looks at her? Yeah, I definitely want that.
I think about Resolution #4 and sigh. Oh, well. At least this will strike two items off the list.
I’m about to clear my throat, get their attention so I can ask them what “quirk” makes this apartment affordable for me, when a face appears at the window of the door behind them. I gasp a little, not having expected such a thing, and then there’s a knock on that door.
Ainsley peers over Rafe’s shoulder and breaks into a huge smile. “It’s Mason!” she says, and hurries over to open it.
Sure, okay, just let some stranger into my—
Oh.
I may not know how to cook, but that doesn’t stop me from recognizing the guy standing in my potential apartment.
Holy shit, it’s Mason Brody.
Mason Brody is the unspeakably sexy star of Knives Out, the cooking show were contestants try to stop one another from winning by sabotaging each other in the kitchen. He also owns a restaurant here in town—Gastrique, a few blocks over from here—and last I heard he was opening one in Vegas as well. He’s got a branded cooking game for phones and tablets (I happen to be quite good at it, as a matter of fact), a line of cookware, and a set of chef’s knives.
And, of course, there was the infamous shirtless calendar. Not that I owned two copies—one for work and one for home—or anything. Ahem.
And he’s standing in my living room. Well, my future living room. My potential living room.
Ainsley kisses him on the cheek and practically drags him across the living area to where I’m standing by the breakfast bar. “Claire Warner, this is Mason Brody. He lives downstairs. Mason, I’m trying to convince Claire to buy this place.”
I nod, struck speechless. Up close, he’s even more perfect than in calendar form: thick mocha-colored hair, eyes the exact shade of good espresso, and a perfect, kissable cupid’s bow of a mouth. He’s wearing a lightweight black sweater that stretches across his broad shoulders and chest, making it clear that, whatever else he does with his time, he’s obviously not slacking off at the gym.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry to intrude. Ainsley mentioned trying to get someone to buy this place, and I saw the lights were on, so…” He looks around. “It’s nice. It’ll get a lot of sunlight.”
He smells amazing, literally good enough to eat.
Which, duh. Of course he does. He’s probably been cooking.
Whatever he’s been cooking, I’d like a bite.
That sounds dirty, and I feel myself blushing.
“Are you gonna do it?”
“Do what?” I ask. Bite him? No.
Maybe.
“Are you going to buy the apartment?” To his credit, he does not finish the sentence with Are you deaf?, which honestly he could have. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Oh, of course,” I say brightly. I’m not normally an idiot around guys, but I don’t usually find myself having to converse with sexy celebrities. In fact, in New York, we take a certain pride in never being starstruck. I decide to go that route. So what, it’s Mason Brody; no big deal.
Yeah, right.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m distracted. Trying to figure out what’s wrong with this place.”
He peers at me, looking a little puzzled. “Okay?”
“Ainsley told me it was quirky,” I say. “So far it seems pretty great to me.”
“Oh, right!” Ainsley lets go of Mason’s hand and gestures Rafe over. “Show Claire the bedroom.”
I grin a little. He’s, like, literally a titan of industry, and she’s got him showing me around like a real estate agent.
But he doesn’t seem to mind. He leads me through another pocket door opposite the kitchen area. On the other side is a sort of combination hallway and closet; the facing wall is lined with deep shelves, but there are doors to my left and right. Rafe opens the right-side door, gestures me into the room, and follows me in.
We both fit, but only because there’s no bed in here. It’s tiny. I can probably get my queen bed in here, but nothing bigger. And once the bed’s in here, I think I’ll be shopping for a much narrower nightstand. It’s honestly not much bigger than the closet off the entryway. It’s an interior room, butting against the hallway if I’ve got the layout right, so there isn’t even a window.
“Not so much a bedroom as a cave,” Rafe says ruefully. He knocks a fist against the wall to his right, which my internal compass tell me has the entryway on the other side. “I’ve considered knocking out this wall and just marketing the place as a studio, but Ainsley said the right sort of person would see this room as a feature, not a bug.”
“I was thinking earlier that I like a cozy bedroom,” I muse, looking around. “I didn’t quite have this in mind but … you know, I think it could work.”
“If it were me,” Ainsley says from the bedroom doorway, “I’d hang the walls with fabric. Just do up a whole Arabian nights tent sort of thing, with soft fabrics everywhere and a zillion big comfy pillows.”
I turn back and see that Mason is behind her. Apparently, he’s not leaving just yet. His warm brown eyes flick around the tiny room and settle on me. I flush a little, not sure why him looking at me in a bedroom that’s not even mine—nor even properly a bedroom right now—should make me so flustered.
But it does.
And if I’m honest, I do know why: because he’s smoking, burning, unbelievably hot, duh.
And he’s out of my league, so that’s enough of that.
“Yeah,” I say, slowly, turning in a circle. “Definitely would want to make it into something ... what’s the word?”
“Decadent,” Mason says. All three of us look at him, and he shrugs. “That’s the word that comes to mind. Sensual.”
Coming from his mouth, the word sensual is pretty swoony. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was flirting. I catch myself smiling kind of dreamily and try to snap out of it. Mason Brody is way out of my league, I remind myself again. Surely whatever curiosity has him following us around the apartment will abate soon, and he’ll go home.
“What about the bathroom?” I ask Rafe.
He edges around me and heads for the door, shooing Ainsley and Mason ahead of him. They back out into the apartment proper, and I follow Rafe across the closet-hallway-whatever it is, into my dream bathroom.
There’s a giant clawfoot tub with a shower curtain surround, ceramic black-and-white floor tiles, a high tin ceiling, and two tall windows with a built-in shelving unit between them.
“It’s not ideal,” Rafe begins.
“Are you kidding me?” I say, walking to the windows. In the daytime, this room will be flooded with natural light, just like the living room. “This is fantastic. This is like a dream bathroom.”
He just stares at me for a moment. “I just thought it ... needed updating,” he says. “I considered doing it but figured I’d leave it for the buyer, so they could make it over however they liked. It’s part of the reason the price is below market. That and the cave bedroom.”
“If I tell you the bathroom and bedroom are perfect to me,” I say, “just the way they are, are you going to jack the price up?”
He smiles. “Definitely not,” he says. “I’m glad you like it. If you’d like to think about it for a bit, we can hash out the details at the office on Wednesday.”
That works pretty well, actually. I want to look over my finances, do some math. Know what I can afford before Rafe tells me how much the apartment costs. Because one thing I’m definitely not going to do is buy more apartment than I can afford, no matter how much I love it.
And I do; I really do. Every detail has made me like it more: closets, light, space, the vintage bathroom, the burrow-like bedroom. If the money works out, I definitely want it.
I take one last look at the night sky outside the bathroom windows and turn to leave. Mason is standing behind me, and Rafe and Ainsley have wandered off. I can hear their voices from out in the kitchen.
“So,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends a wave of warmth all the way down to my toes, “does this mean we’re going to be neighbors?”
Oh, Lord. I wasn’t really paying attention when Ainsley introduced us, but of course that’s what she said: he lives downstairs.
Gonna have to get a grip on myself, that’s for sure. The guy’s just being nice, and I need to not act like a starstruck freak. “Maybe,” I say, smiling. “Probably.”
“Well, that’s a nice development,” he says. “I’ll look forward to seeing more of you.” He moves closer to me, so close that I can feel the heat of his body. My heart starts to beat faster. Okay, maybe not just being nice? Is he—
He reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear. I feel a tingle where his fingers touch my ear, and draw in a shuddering breath.
To my surprise, he pulls his hand away quickly and draws a not-too-steady breath of his own. “Wow,” he says. Just that, and nothing more.
Wow, indeed. I don’t know what to say, so I just go with, “Yeah, wow.”
Brilliant. Making an excellent impression, I’m sure.
But whatever just passed between us is clouding my senses—and, from the looks of him, he’s feeling it too. He looks at me for a long moment, our eyes locked, and the air between us is pregnant with possibility.
His gaze drops to my lips, then comes back to meet mine.
Then he abruptly turns and leaves the bathroom, and I stand there dumbfounded for a moment. Mason Brody just did the hair-behind-the-ear thing. To me.
Mason Brody just made a sexy double entendre about seeing me naked.
And I’m pretty sure he was thinking about kissing me.