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This building was a bookbinding shop back in the late 1800s, and it’s been remodeled into several penthouses and loft-style apartments. Plenty of A-listers, artists, and fashionistas call this place home.
“Not what you expected?” she asks, shutting the door behind her.
“I just have one question.” I glance over at her. “Where do you keep your portal to hell?”
A small smile dances on her lips as she walks past me, giving me an enticing view of her curves. I force my eyes to stay forward, but I’m tempted to memorize every last inch of her. The lights are dim as she leads me into the kitchen. She has an open floor plan with high ceilings, exposed brick, and wooden beams. It feels cozy, lived in.
“A candlelit dinner. How unexpected,” I mutter, following her into the kitchen.
She almost laughs.
“Stop doing that,” she says, opening a cabinet and pulling out two plates.
“Doing what?” I ask innocently.
“You’re flirting,” she replies.
“This isn’t flirting. Raise your standards.” I shrug.
She glares at me. “Every day, I wonder why my brothers choose to be friends with someone like you.” She’s annoyed, yet she hands me a plate.
“Yeah? How long have you been holding that rant in?”
She groans. “You anger me.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I admit. “But don’t pretend to be all kind and thoughtful. Your reputation precedes you, Calloway. You’re not soft. You’re cold as ice.”
“Then why are you here? It’s almost like you enjoy me tearing into you,” she counters, unbothered.
“And what if I do?” I challenge. “What if getting under your skin is the highlight of my day?”
She shakes her head. “Find someone else.”
“Nope. It’s me and you, Ice Queen. This has been going on for so long. No way I’m calling it quits now. I’m way too invested.”
She grabs a few napkins for us.
When I glance over, I see her phone is unlocked, displaying the Instagram post of us. I pick it up and smirk.
“Nope,” she says, rushing toward me and snatching it from my hand. “Why would you post that? What is wrong with you?”
Laughter bursts from me. “For this reaction. Totally worth it.”
“This isn’t funny, Banks! You’re ruining my life. For the last time, leave me alone.” She almost sounds desperate.
“No can do, princess.” I move deeper into her kitchen and spot a few bottles of bourbon on the counter. One is my favorite. I remove the top and take a swig. “This is the best. You’ve got good taste,” I say, settling into a seat at the nook. “In everything except men and the dumb-as-fuck sculptures you have at Bellamore.”
She looks at me like she wants to rip my eyes out. “Rude as hell. Don’t talk about my art that way.”
“How much money did you waste on them?”
Her mouth drops open. “Imadethem. You fucking prick.”
“Oh, you made them? So, you’re fully responsible for the sleek,curved dildos in Bellamore. If that’s not a sign of sexual frustration, then I don’t know what is.”
Billie sits on the stool at the end of the breakfast nook. She’s so far away that I wouldn’t be able to touch her if I reached out. Maybe that’s for the best.
“They don’t look like dicks,” she mumbles, taking a bite of pizza. “You shouldn’t be here. The paps are watching the building.”