Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
So I had one massage, was slathered in mud, had a foot massage, a facial, hair treatments, another type of massage that both hurt and felt good in equal turns, followed by an herbal body wrap, a hot stone massage, light therapy, dry brushing, a steam, and, finally, one last ‘relaxation’ massage. Like I hadn’t already been relaxed to within an inch of my life already.
In between treatments, I was given copious amounts of spa water full of fruits and cucumbers, offered fresh fruit, dark chocolate, and champagne.
I went ahead and skipped the latter. The last thing in the world I needed when I was about to meet with Harrison again was anything that would alter my mind.
“Can I help you find something?” an employee asked when I pulled back a curtain in the final treatment room.
“I was just looking for a window,” I admitted. “This place is disorienting. Like a casino,” I added. The only windows I’d seen were the ones out front in the reception area. Which was completely cut off from the back of the spa.
“We find our guests relax better without the evidence of the world outside,” the woman told me. “Can we set up any more treatments for you?”
“I think I’ve had them all,” I said with a little laugh. “I should probably get going.”
With that, I was led back to the first room where I changed, collected my bag, and was led out to the front of the spa.
“It’s dark,” I said to the doorman as he let me out.
“It is,” he agreed.
“What time is it?”
“Just after six.”
“Six?”
I’d been in the spa, what, seven hours? A whole workday, practically.
“Mrs. Valentine,” John said, making my head whip up.
“Hey. I’m so sorry,” I said, stepping toward him.
“What for?”
“For making you sit out here for seven hours! Who does that?”
“That’s the job,” he said, shrugging.
“Did you get to eat at least?”
“I took a few short breaks.”
“Well, why don’t you just tell me an address, and I can get myself there so you can go home?”
“I’ll bring you to the penthouse, Mrs. Valentine.”
“I can walk,” I insisted.
“It’s on the Upper East Side.”
“A cab then.”
“Mrs. Valentine,” he said, opening the back door.
That felt like the professional way of him saying, ‘get your ass in the car, Layna.’
I didn’t want to keep him from his life any longer, so I went ahead and slid in.
“Did you speak to Harrison?” I asked when the silence in the car stretched uncomfortably long.
“Twenty minutes ago. He was on his way home.”
The drive took nearly twice as long as it would have at any other time of day.
The building we pulled up to had slate cladding and large vertical windows with black frames and muntins. Except on the top floor, where several of the windows had rounded tops. The penthouse floor also appeared to have two large balconies at the front of the building. It was impossible to see to the back.
But I guess I would see for myself soon enough.
“Thanks for the ride, John,” I said. “Sorry that spa visit took so long.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he insisted as I made my way toward the front door that was, yet again, manned by a man in a suit.
“Mrs. Valentine,” he greeted me.
“Hey,” I said, giving him a smile. It wasn’t these people’s fault that I didn’t want to be addressed like that. They were just doing the job they were told to do. By the person who likely tipped them very well.
The lobby was warm and lit in that way that made it glow.
When my step stuttered, someone was—of course—all too happy to direct me to the private penthouse elevator and provide me with the key to actually unlock it.
I was used to being around financially well-off people. Most of my family was very comfortable. Willa was, objectively, kind of rich.
But this world of Harrison’s? This was something completely different entirely.
The doors chimed and opened to a vestibule full of gleaming wood floors, a coat closet, a console table, a security panel, and the door.
I guess it was probably a buffer zone—a place for assistants or delivery persons to drop off packages, dry cleaning, or food orders.
Understandably, Harrison didn’t want a bunch of building employees just walking into his apartment. And it probably worked from a security standpoint to make sure there was one more door, one more security checkpoint, between strangers and his home.
Sucking in a breath, I made my way to the door and started to lift my hand to knock, when the screen beside the door announced, “Approved access.”
The door unlocked.
Jesus.
He’d even set his security system up to recognize me?
I pushed open the door and stepped into, well, the nicest freaking penthouse I’d ever seen. And I’d seen a few.
The space was open, the dozens of windows letting the city lights in, but the cozy, warm lighting inside made it all somehow feel a world away.