At six fifty-eight, my doorman rings to tell me I have a visitor. I’ve spent the better part of the last two hours trying to figure out how to get out of this. I barely noticed when it was six-forty-five, used to burning the midnight oil at work. Luckily my high rise condo is less than a ten-minute walk from my office. I rushed home and put on a slightly more casual outfit, pressed khaki pants and a navy and white striped top, with three-quarter sleeves and a boat neck. Finishing off with pretty, navy ballet flats, makeup in check, hair in my typical style.
I tell the doorman I’ll be right there and fetch my purse and keys. For some reason, I don’t want Chase to see my apartment. Okay, I know exactly why. My condo could grace the pages of a magazine, but even those homes have a personal touch. The décor is done in cream and different shades of brown. The walls are all adorned with sepia photographs of the city from different angles, but no people. There are not pictures of anyone in fact. No homemade blankets or pillows, no candles, sentimental knick-knacks, nothing to make the space seem personal. I’ve never had an issue with my apartment, but for reasons unknown, I don’t want Chase to see just how cold and empty I am.
After entering the hall, I lock the door and take the elevator down to the lobby. Chase is at the counter shooting the shit with Gary, my doorman. When he sees me, his eyes light up and I go all squishy inside. He straightens up to his full height which has to be several inches over six feet because even in my heels, he’s several inches taller than me. Right now, in my flats, he towers over me and I can’t help feeling dainty and feminine.
He walks up to me and kisses my cheek, and when he moves back, I see Gary gaping at us, his jaw practically unhinged. I frown at him and he immediately snaps his mouth shut and busies himself at the desk. I don’t understand his reaction, it’s not like I don’t have guests. My mother has visited me a few times and Lindsay stopped by once or twice before we lost touch. I’m wracking my brain to figure out who else has been at my place since I bought it five years ago.
I don’t like the answer.
Chase looks me up and down, smirking, but all he says is, “Let’s hit the road, babe.”
The damn nickname flusters me, like every other time he’s used it. I should argue, insist on staying home, nip this in the bud, but I don’t. I don’t want to. For the first time in almost ten years, I admit to myself, I’m lonely. So, I let him guide me out to the vehicle, idling near the valet stand, which practically screams, “For a good time, spend an hour in my backseat with the owner.”
He holds my door while I climb in, shuts it and jogs to the driver side. He gets in and glances over, “Seatbelt, Tori.”
His tone is firm, a little rough even. I don’t usually forget, but I find myself burning brain cells from the heat he inspires inside of me. After I click it into place, he pulls out of the circular drive, carefully navigating the streets of the city—not an easy task when there are six-way intersections. The city planner was paid off by a notorious gangster to design it this way, making it easier to slip away from the police. Unfortunately, it also means more accidents and I find myself breathing a little harder from anxiety. Thank you, Al Capone. Chase practically crawls through each light until he gets onto the freeway for a short distance before exiting into a residential area.
Eventually, he stops and parallel parks on the street in front of a charming, greystone townhouse. He shuts the Challenger off, gets out, and rounds the car to my side, opening the door and offering me a hand to help me out.
Staring up at the house, I ask, “This is yours?”
I can’t keep out the touch of awe in my voice. I definitely didn’t picture him having a place like this.
“Yep. Bought it, gutted it, and am restoring it.” He eyes me, “Why? What were you expecting?”
I chuckle quietly, my cheeks heating once again. What is with that? “I guess I figured you’d have a flat in some trendy neighborhood by the university.”
Chase laughs and the sound reverberates through my body, putting my hormones on high alert. I bite back a groan of frustration.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Tori. And a lot I don’t know about you, but my goal is to correct that sad state of affairs.”
He leads me to a tall wrought iron fence which surrounds the tiny front yard. The gate is particularly tall, with an arch at the top, an old-fashioned gas lamp hanging in the center. Once he’s unlocked it, we step through and I get the full view. On the right side are steps leading up to a small covered porch, the stone arching over the entrance, and a gorgeous, mahogany door, with a stained glass center, set back inside. The house rises to a second level where a tall, rectangular window breaks the pattern of the greystone. The left side of the house expands outward with a bay window, the design stretching from top to bottom. Each section contains their own set of three windows, each with the stone arching at the top. There is also a rather large window near the ground, indicating a high basement. It’s amazing.
Chase takes my hand, and we walk up the steps, where he unlocks the door and I find myself once again stunned speechless by the beauty. The natural woodwork is everywhere, the floors, the molding, and throughout the entirety of the staircase which takes up the right wall. It’s shiny and looks new, but it is also obvious that it’s the original, lovingly restored. To the left of the staircase, is a long hall with a lot of doors and I absolutely have to know what’s inside them all.
Chase squeezes the hand I now realize he hasn’t let go of. His smile is proud and amused at my enthusiasm. “Want a tour?”
“Yes!” I blurt out in excitement.
He chuckles again and begins walking me around from room to room. The main floor is complete, a front room which was once a parlor, now a warm space intended to welcome its visitors. A full dining room, with a massive wall unit built around a large fireplace, a half bath, an office, and…oh my. The kitchen of my dreams is at the back of the house, rusty cream cabinets, white appliances, sand colored granite counter tops. Somehow it all looks vintage. All of this taking up the majority of the three back walls, with a center island. However, it’s the large window over the sink—which overlooks the big, fenced back yard, and a beautifully carved back door, painted to match the cabinets—which sells me on the room.
The yard is perfect and someday, Chase’s kids will play out there, frolicking and having fun, and with no gate in the fence, he and his wife won’t have to worry. A cloud settles over me and I spin around, dropping Chase’s hand, and march out of the kitchen.
“Where to?” I ask in a brisk tone.
He’s looking at me with an unreadable expression, but he doesn’t verbalize his thoughts. He lifts his chin toward the stairs and we visit four bedrooms and two baths, all works in progress. Finally, an unfinished basement which will eventually be a “play area.” I beat a hasty retreat out of that room as well.
Once again in the upstairs hall, I ask, “So? Where is this torture to take place?”
Chase smirks and shakes his head, “You can’t be painting in those clothes, Tori. Don’t you own any ratty stuff for messy activities?”
I stare blankly at him.
“Okay,” he says, understanding dawning, “not a messy activity kind of person.” A sly smile slithers onto his face. “One more thing we are going to change.” He moves toward the stairs and grabs my wrist, dragging me up alongside him.
We enter the largest bedroom, with the bay window overlooking the street, and he disappears through a door. He reemerges with an old, paint-stained T-shirt and sweatpants.