Page 100 of Morally Black Betrothal

The doors opened with a quiet chime, but neither of us moved. All our friendly jokes seemed to have deserted us as he tipped his head, awaiting my response.

“I—well, no,” I managed, though now I had the image of the two of us doingsomethingright here in this elevator, in view of all of Boston. “I mean—I don’t think so.”

Maybe I was turning into a liar after all. There was a growing part of me that wouldn’t care where Brendan Black kissed me, touched me, or did other unspeakable things to me—as long as he did them at all.

Bad, bad girl.

Brendan studied me for a long moment before he pushed off the glass wall. “That’s good. I wouldn’t want to share you like that either.”

Before I could ask what that meant, he picked up my case and exited the elevator, leaving me to follow him inside.

I walked into the largest abode—house or otherwise—I’d ever seen.

In a building that was the size of a full city block, I realized just how much space two entirefloorsof the Martin actually occupied. It was a castle for The Black Prince. A glass-walled, open-air castle, complete with a delicately carved staircase spiraling up the center, ensconced in glass like a vase of tree branches.

I barely registered when Brendan took my coat and put it into a closet as the elevator doors closed behind us. The scuffed soles of my shoes barely made a sound as I walked through the atrium, under the stairwell, and found the floor-to-ceiling windows that curved aroundmultipleliving rooms and the wealth of luxury within them.

Football-field-sized rugs. A concert grand piano. A couch that could comfortably seat twelve in front of an enormous gas fireplace wreathed by a marble facade. Boston provided a view better than the screen, its lights hugged by the black expanse of the Harbor and the winding snake of the Charles River.

I turned. “I don’t think they should call you The Black Prince anymore.”

Brendan was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding his suit jacket over one arm as he loosened his tie. “Oh?”

“You should be called The Raptor. Or maybe The Hawk. You have your very own aerie, all the way up in the sky.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded with the shy smile that was quickly becoming my favorite. “I’d accept it. The Black Prince is plain unoriginal, especially since there are three other ‘heirs’ besides me.”

I ran a finger over the edge of a white sideboard in the foyer. Not a speck of dust came up. “Are you sure you want me to live here? It’s so pristine. I come with a cloud of flour in my wake.”

“It’s nothing.”

He said that a lot when it came to his money or anything related to it. Funny—wasn’t this whole scheme designed for him to get more of it?

“So much space for one person.” I slipped off my shoes and wandered into one of the living rooms, an interior wall reaching at least twenty feet was nearly covered by a modern art painting comprised of slashes of green, blue, and black. Probably priceless and commissioned specifically for the space.

But something about it felt incredibly impersonal. Just like the rest of the apartment. There was no intimacy here. Not a single photo of a family member or a handmade gift from a niece or nephew. No rumpled throw blankets or dog-eared books or any remnants of actual human habitation.

This was a beautiful place for sure. But it wasn’t a home.

For the first time, I felt genuinely sorry for Brendan Black, living up here in his glass palace, all alone.

As if he sensed my pity, Brendan broke the silence with a gruff order. “Come with me.”

He captured my hand again and pulled me through the living room, past an empty dining table that could seat twenty, through a third living room scattered with more art and untouched furniture, and through one more door.

“This is for you.”

Weakened knees was a standard cliché in any romance novel. I’d always assumed it was lazy writing. What person actually lost their ability to stand because of a kiss or sweet gesture?

And yet, that is exactly what happened when I saw Brendan Black’s kitchen.

Three sub-zero refrigerators. A wall of custom pantry cupboards. Two six-burner stoves, three industrial farmhouse sinks, two standard ovens, a central island the size of a house covered in a waterfall of marble, plus thepièce de résistance, an industrial-sized bread oven built directly into one of the walls.

It was easily the largest private kitchen I’d ever seen. Twice the size of the one my father had built for my mom when she was making bread and cheese for all of Woodstock. Four times what I had set up for myself in JP.

It also smelled like fresh paint.

I turned to Brendan. “This can’t have been your actual kitchen before now.”