Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I’ve come straight from the airport with only a suitcase and my laptop. Colin’s assured me the guest bedroom is comfortably furnished, so other than a couple boxes of clothes and shoes arriving via UPS tomorrow, I don’t have much stuff.
As you can imagine, the whole thing has left me feeling strangely in limbo. On one hand, I’ve left my San Francisco apartment more or less “as is,” since I’ll be returning to it. At the same time, this isn’t a one-week getaway to Cancun or even a two-week escape to Europe. It’s three months of not just visiting somewhere else but living there.
In the name of positive thinking, I’ve been trying to spin it in my brain as an extended vacation. After all, maybe if I call it a vacation, it’ll start to feel like one. A girl can hope.
Anyway, where was I?
Oh right, Colin’s apartment building. It’s a high-rise, as expected, but it’s not sleek and shiny and modern. It’s not a pre-war building either. Instead, it’s somewhere in between, a newish building that’s clearly been designed with a nod to old New York. The structure is sort of a cozy off-white instead of being comprised of shiny panels, and the ornate detailing around the windows gives one the sense that the building’s been around a lot longer than I suspect it actually has.
I exhale a long breath, and before I can chicken out and go running back to San Francisco, I force my feet forward through the front door.
The lobby, too, is a surprise. It’s white marble, but instead of feeling cold and unapproachable, it manages to feel warm and homey. The flower arrangements are lavish, but inviting, the doormen smiling and welcoming.
“Mrs. Walsh, I presume?”
It takes me a solid thirty seconds to realize the man behind the enormous desk is talking to me.
“Oh! No. I … I’m Charlotte. Spencer. I kept my maiden name,” I say, fumbling through the introduction like a newlywed who hasn’t come to grips with her status as a married woman.
Which, of course, I haven’t.
“Of course, I’m sorry. Mr. Walsh said his wife would be arriving today—I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No worries.” I give him a friendly smile, knowing I’m going to need allies if I’m to survive the next three months. “What’s your name?”
“Matteo, ma’am.”
I wince. “Does the job require you to call me ma’am? Or can we go with Charlotte?”
He smiles. “Well, Charlotte. I’ll just need to see some ID, and I can hand over the keys to your new home.”
Home. Ha.
Matteo and I make the exchange: me proving my identity, and him handing over a little fob that is the key to my prison.
Did I say prison?
I meant prison.
Matteo points me to the elevators, and I find myself on the fortieth floor, scanning the doors until I find Colin’s apartment.
My apartment. Nope. It still doesn’t feel right.
Though, I have to say, opening the door and seeing where I’ll be serving my sentence for the next three months is a pleasant surprise. Yes, there are the expected whiffs of a bachelor pad. The TV is ginormous, the sofa clearly chosen with a mind to accommodate Colin’s large frame. But as with the lobby downstairs, the rest of the apartment is surprisingly homey. The kitchen, while modern, is all white wood, the backsplash and counters bright white instead of the expected sleek, dark that I’d pictured in my head.
Everything is spotless, so I’m pretty sure the lone sheet of paper on the kitchen counter is for me. I’m right.
The smaller bedroom is yours. -C
I roll my eyes, tossing the note back on the counter. I wheel my bag down the hallway, sticking my head into a bathroom that is super tiny and I’m really hoping isn’t what I’ll be stuck with for the next three months. I have never been, nor am I currently, one of those girls who claims to be low-maintenance. I have a look, and my look needs a lot more counter space.
I flick off the bathroom light and continue to the end of the hallway. The doors to both bedrooms are open, and I can see at a glance which is the smaller—which is mine. I drop my bags just inside the door, but instead of entering and making myself at home, I instead turn and go into Colin’s bedroom.
I’ve always thought you can learn a lot about someone from their bedroom. The theory isn’t holding in this case. Colin’s bedroom tells me almost nothing. The bed is large and the bedding white, reminding me of something you’d see in a generic, chain hotel. The furniture is large and a little more old-fashioned than I’m used to. Dark wood with sturdy black handles.
I wander into the walk-in closet, which is small by my closet standards, but I suppose when you have nothing but dark suits and white shirts, as seems to be the case with Colin’s wardrobe, you don’t need much space.