Page 99 of Morally Black Betrothal

PENTHOUSE SHMENTHOUSE

Simone

Ihad never lived with a man before. My only experience with roommates had been in that glorified apartment I’d shared briefly with Selena after first moving to Boston. Now I was about to cohabitate not only with someone who was kind of, sort of my employer, but who was also hiring me to act like I was in love with him and who had just shown me another side of his personality that had made it exponentially harder to “just pretend.”

So, yeah, I was overwhelmed as Brendan helped me out of the car and took my suitcase from Anthony. My stomach had been churning for about twenty minutes like it was making butter.

And maybe it made sense that the first thing out of my mouth when I stared up at the familiar high-rise that was a trademark part of the Boston skyline was also the most awkwardly obvious observation ever:

“You live in a hotel?”

The Martin was one of the poshest buildings in Boston, a foundation of old onto which the new had been added steadily over the last hundred years. It looked traditional enough for the first five stories, with a brick facade that matched other nineteenth-century architecture of downtown Boston. But above that, it soared into the sky like a glass sword to spear the heavens. It was the kind of place that hosted heads of state and, well, billionaires like my pseudo-date.

Not humble bakers and hospital volunteer aides.

“Sort of. About twenty-five percent of the Martin is private residences.” Brendan looked up with me, as if seeing his building for the first time. “Mine is at the top. Come on, I’ll show you.”

As the Aston pulled away, Brendan picked up my bag, took my hand, and towed me toward one of the two awning-covered doors. One led to the hotel and a few posh restaurants that cost a small fortune to enjoy. We took the other, where a doorman greeted Brendan with a tip of his cap.

“Mr. Black. Welcome home.”

“John, this is Simone Bishop, my fiancée. She’s moving in tonight.”

John nodded at me with a friendly smile. “Of course. Welcome, Ms. Bishop. Your things have already arrived.”

“They have?” I turned to Brendan.

“Ruth brought over your clothes.” His eyes met mine. “Nothing was wrong with them at all.”

He didn’t wait for a response as he led me to the far end of the lobby, then punched a code into the call box for a private elevator.

“Two, four, seven, three,” I whispered, trying to commit the number to memory. I looked up with a grin. “B-I-R-D?”

I was rewarded with another of those bashful smiles that made it hard not to jump into his arms. “Don’t tell anyone I’m so easy to figure out.”

The doors opened, and he released my hand as we stepped inside.

“I bet the girls go crazy for this place,” I said as the elevator began its trek up to the fifty-ninth floor.

Once we were above the bricked part of the building, Boston spread out below us like a glittering blanket in the night, visible through the glass.

Brendan didn’t seem to notice the view. “I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

“Why not? You’d probably get lucky right here in the elevator if you wanted. The view alone would make them fall in love with you.”

Why was I even saying these kinds of things? I sounded like my sister when she was fishing for compliments by comparing herself to others. It was pathetic and totally driven by the anxiety that wouldn’t quite calm down.

Not just because I was about to see the place where I was going to live with Brendan Black. I also feared that he would take one look at me surrounded by this grandeur and realize I didn’t fit here at all.

And there was a part of me now that really, really wanted to.

“Would it work for you?”

That intense green gaze pinned me to the glass for the last moments of the ride.

Was he asking if I was into elevator sex? Or was he asking if the view would make me fall in love?

Or both?