Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Peter: I intend to impress you in so many ways
Me: Are you trying to get me to come see you now?
Peter: Is that an option?
Me: I took a cold shower. I’ll survive the night
Peter: Tomorrow then? Do you need a ride?
Me: Tomorrow. No ride. Thanks though!
His address pops up on my screen, and I google it to see how far away he is. An image of his building appears on Google Maps, and I gasp. Holy shit, he lives in a fancy high-rise in TriBeCa, which is one of the most expensive neighborhoods in New York. Meanwhile, I’m living in a dilapidated apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. What have I gotten myself into?
8
Whitney
I’ve agreed to meet Peter at his apartment at 5:00 for dinner. My cab pulls up in front of a towering building made of glass and steel overlooking the Hudson River. Peter later texted that he’s in the penthouse, so I crane my neck to see that far up in the sky. The building is so tall that its spire seems to disappear in the clouds.
Unlike my unattended building, Peter’s building has a 24-hour doorman, complete with a natty cap and uniform. I smile hesitantly, and desperately feel like I don’t belong. I sent Allie the address and she too, was surprised at the fancy zip code. She says she feels like she should know who Peter is. She’s going to think on it, and she’ll text me when it comes to her.
Going into the building, I pass a woman carrying a little bulgy-eyed dog in her purse. She doesn’t hide the sneer as she looks me up and down. I think I’m dressed okay. Peter said to dress casual since we can’t leave and go anywhere, anyways, so I put on a pair of black pants and a new white blouse that laces up the front. The lacing reminds me of how sexy he made me feel when I wore that gypsy outfit.
I topped the look off with cute black, suede, open-toed wedges and a black satin ribbon in my hair. I thought black and white would be classy yet casual. Clearly, puppy purse lady disagrees. I approach the concierge with some hesitation.
“Hi, I’m Whitney Porter for Peter Coleman?”
He nods his head politely.
“Yes, welcome Miss Porter. Mr. Coleman told me to expect you. The penthouse elevator is that way,” he says.
I stop, confused.
“It’s not with the other elevators?”
The concierge shakes his head.
“No Miss. The penthouse has its own elevator. This way please.”
Oh wow. A private elevator? I never expected this. I make my way to the left of the lobby where a pair of brass doors await. Then, the doors slide open and I step into a luxurious elevator with a velvet bench. Classic Rock is piped through the speakers. My palms are sweating and my heart is racing. I quickly text Alvina that his name is Peter Coleman, and that I’m in the building.
I drop my phone in my purse as the door to this palace in the sky opens. Surprisingly, it doesn’t open into a hallway. Instead, it opens directly into Peter’s apartment, and the handsome man is standing there, looking ungodly gorgeous. His black t-shirt is fitted and gives him a lean muscular line that reminds me of a panther. He looks like he could be dangerous until he smiles a wide grin that reaches all the way to his ocean blue eyes.
“Hi sweetheart,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to my cheek. “Did you have trouble finding the place?”
I shake my head, stammering a bit.
“No, it was easy to find. Thank you for having me.”
He steps back smiling, although oddly, his hands are stuffed tight in the pockets of his black jeans.
“Well, welcome to my home,” he says. “Come on, I’ll show you around,” he motions with his head towards a huge living room.
We step into a space with twenty foot ceilings and floor to ceiling windows overlooking the river.
“It’s breathtaking,” I finally manage to say.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
I turn and notice he is staring at me when he says that. Immediately I go warm. Does he mean me, or the view? But then, Peter takes his hands out of his pockets long enough to open massive French doors that lead to an expansive patio. He immediately shoves his hands, wrist deep, back into his jeans pockets. This is a little odd but I don’t want to ask; maybe he just has eczema or something.
There’s a sleek patio set on the terrace. It doesn’t look too comfortable but the view is spectacular.
“Do you have coffee out here every morning?” I ask.
“No, not as often as I should,” he says.
I nod with understanding.
“I have to be at the bakery five days a week at 4:00 a.m. so I miss most sunrises. But those two days I get off, I’d sleep in until sunrise and sit out here to watch the oranges, pinks, and purples peek up over the river.”