Page 23 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter seventeen

Living in New York City tends to distort your perception of wealth and affluence.

Here, it’s not designer bags or accessories that signal money—it’s property ownership.

Valet parking. An apartment with four-digits worth of square footage and room for multiple couches. An unadulterated view of Central Park.

“Would you like a tour?” Adrian slips behind me, his arms encircling my waist and his cool breath ghosting the shell of my ear. “Perhaps a condensed one?”

I don’t trust myself not to gape like a fish or start rambling about square footage, so I just nod—even as a dust storm of anxiety kicks up inside my stomach.

I’m fine, I tell myself. Everything about this is fine, and totally not overwhelming.

I momentarily mourn the loss of Adrian’s body slotted against mine when he steps back to fiddle with his phone—but then several lights kick on, illuminating the open-floor plan in its entirety.

I smother a gasp.

Totally and completely fine.

“This is the kitchen,” he points out first, but I barely have time to take in the matte black cabinets and dark marble countertops before he’s leading me away.

“—the dining room—”

He nods towards a hanging chandelier and large, glass-top table that both look like they could double as contemporary art pieces.

“—and the living room—”

I note three Italian leather couches and the massive home cinema, but it’s the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park’s vast greenery that really capture my attention.

Imagine painting with this kind of natural light, I think. It puts the cubby hole I call a bedroom window to shame.

“I’m pretty sure I could fit my entire apartment in this one room.” I give up on trying to sound unimpressed by the time we reach his office, a spacious study with towering bookshelves and a massive executive desk.

There’s a ventless gas fireplace flickering in the corner, but it adds little warmth to the room—and I realize what’s been bothering me about this apartment.

As if he can sense the change, Adrian, still leaning against the doorframe, asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Your apartment is beautiful,” I shake my head, but I can tell by the look in his eye that he’s not going to let this go till he’s pried it out of me. “It’s just…a little cold.”

More like, below-freezing with a risk of frostbite.

His arches an eyebrow. “This entire apartment is the handiwork of Roffe Ture.” At my blank look, he elaborates. “The world-famous designer from Sweden.”

He sounds mildly offended, and I hold my hands up in surrender. “And I’m sure the world-famous designer knows better than me—it was just a humble observation.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “And, according to your humble observation , some aspect of the design appears…cold.”

“It’s not the design.”

“My furniture, then.”

“No. It’s not that either,” I shake my head. “I mean, everything you’ve shown me looks like it could’ve been plucked straight from an Architectural Digest article. It’s all beautiful…but it looks staged.”

“Staged?”

“It’s all spotless,” I say, and I run my fingers along the dark wood of his desk. “See? Not even a speck of dust.”

“I have a housekeeper who stops by three times a week. I’d be upset if there was dust,” he retorts. “I didn’t realize cleanliness denoted coldness.”

“Okay, forget the dust,” I say. “It looks like nobody has ever sat on your couch or dirtied a dish in your kitchen. It’s…sterile.”

His forehead creases like he’s genuinely confused. “I don’t understand the negative connotation. Sterile environments are healthy ones. Bacteria-free. As close to perfectly clean as you’ll ever get. You don’t want to live in a sterile home?”

“Clean? Yes. Sterile? Absolutely not,” I answer. “Homes are still supposed to feel homey, you know?”

“And leaving dirty dishes in my sink will make this place homey ?” He drawls sarcastically. “For me, or for the cockroaches?”

I let out a huff of laughter. “It’s not about making messes.

What makes a place feel homey are the personal touches,” I explain.

“Like photos of your friends and family on the mantel. The cheesy shot collection you’ve had since college.

The blanket on the couch that always smells like cat, no matter how many times you wash it.

The sixty billion half-burnt candles lying in the bathroom.

The dent in the coffee table courtesy of your drunk friends at 2 AM. ”

Memories of the home I’ll soon no longer have clog my throat, and I shift on my feet, uncomfortable with the surge of nostalgia.

“Anyway,” I say. “I’m sure you understand.

It’s stupidly sentimental, but I’d like to think all those little things—the stuff that connects us to the people we care about—are what make a place feel like home. ”

And I would know.

I spent the first eighteen years of my life in one that didn’t.

“I see.” Adrian’s face might as well be carved from stone, given how eerily blank his expression is—and it suddenly dawns on me.

He doesn’t understand.

Because Adrian doesn’t emotionally connect with people. He never has—not his family, not his classmates at Lionswood, not even his co-workers now.

He’ll feign interest in them. He’ll smile. He’ll ask all the right questions. He’ll make them feel as if they can tell him anything —and he’ll trick them into mistaking their vulnerability for his.

But you can only simulate connection from a distance, I realize. Get too close, and the cracks become obvious.

And there’s not enough expensive furniture, cool amenities, or square footage to fill the lack of humanity in this apartment.

A little of regret seeps in.

Great job, Poppy. A man takes you back to his multi-million dollar penthouse apartment for a night of physical connection, and you ridicule his inability to form an emotional one.

I clear my throat. “But, you know, maybe some art on the walls—or a photo or something — would really brighten things up,” I say, trying to salvage the moment. “And you just moved in. It takes time for a place to feel like home.” I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze, penetrating as ever.

Adrian says nothing, and my regret turns to anxiety.

Is he angry?

Did I cross the line?

Have I ruined tonight before it’s even started?

I open my mouth to apologize, but Adrian pushes off the door frame and approaches. “Is it only things that make a place feel like home?” His hands slot around my waist. “Or…” He leans down. Presses a chaste kiss to the line of my jaw. “Can a person make it feel like home?”

I still.

Is he implying what I think he’s implying?

I’m not sure, but my heart soars all the same.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Poppy, a little voice that sounds a lot like logic whispers in the back of my head.

He hasn’t actually promised you anything.

An old tattoo he might’ve gotten in the throes of heartbreak and a singular comment does not mean he’s capable of truly loving you or anyone else.

And I know that, I do.

But in this particular moment, I can’t bring myself to care about Adrian’s emotional constipation—not as he’s peppering kisses down my neck.

I don’t need promises or confessions or connections with him, I lie. I just need tonight.

“You have no idea what I’ve got planned for you,” he murmurs against my skin, excitement sparking down my spine.

Just tonight, and I’ll check myself into therapy tomorrow.

His mouth sucks on the sensitive curve of my neck—and I gasp.

Just tonight, I vow. And I’ll only pursue the nice guys without severe emotional attachment issues or possessive female college friends.

Just tonight and— what the hell is vibrating?

I take a second to register the faint sensation, and then another to realize it’s coming from Adrian’s pants.

Has it been so long since I’ve gotten laid that male anatomy has actually evolved?

Adrian groans, his mouth still pressed into my neck, as he fishes the vibrating phone out of his pocket—and oh. That makes more sense.

He glances once at the Caller ID, his jaw tightening. “Of course,” he mutters, and then, slowly, like it takes every bit of his willpower to peel himself away from me, he steps back.

“Who is it?” I ask, unable to keep the irritation from leaking into my voice.

Because if they’re going to call this late and interrupt this moment…it better be life-or-death.

He runs a hand through his hair. “The hospital,” he sighs. “I’m on call for consults this week.”

My brows raise, vaguely familiar with the concept after nearly six years of living under the same roof with LuAnne. “You’re supposed to answer every call, right?”

Because it might just be life-or-death after all.

“Unfortunately.” Another tick of his jaw—and whatever he mumbles under his breath is mostly unintelligible, but I swear I catch the tail-end of let and die— before he turns and kisses me. “I promise this won’t take more than a few minutes, sweetheart.”

I nod.

“In the meantime…” Another kiss. “You’re going to be very good, and you’re not going to move from this spot till I return.”

I can’t help the mischievous answer that tumbles out of me. “And what happens if I’m not good ?”

He smiles—a little too wide and bright. “Then next time…” He leans down, kisses me again, and then brings his mouth to the shell of my ear. “I’ll be taking these calls while you’ve got your lips wrapped around my cock.”

I choke a little, not expecting that answer, but Adrian is already striding out of the room, the phone pressed to his ear—and his polite, charming facade situated in place.

The door clicks shut behind him, his footsteps echoing off the hardwood floors.

I let out a shuddering exhale.

Well, that was…something.

The desire curling in my lower belly flits somewhere between mildly uncomfortable and downright unbearable as the minutes tick by.

Okay, what is the actual definition of a ‘few minutes’?

More than one? Less than five? Less than ten?

I scroll through all my social media feeds. I text LuAnne that I’m fifteen grand richer. I answer the rest of the Congratulations! texts from old Pratt classmates. I check my spam folder. I complete the Wordle.

I do everything but move—and when Adrian’s absence ticks into double-digits, I decide it’s time for a new way to pass the time.

He can’t even be upset about this, I think. At this point, it should be expected when he leaves me alone in his office.

Probably not a court-worthy defense, but I pocket my phone.

And then I start snooping.