And I thought his post-game interviews were enough to make me ovulate. The way Spencer talks about food is one of the sexiest things I’ve ever heard.
His gaze floats around the room and I follow his line of sight. That’s when I notice the man who was sitting by the window ten minutes ago has moved to the row of seats behind us.
A chill creeps up my spine, and I realize that staying at the airport alone isn’t the best idea. And seeing as my brother, Alex is in the security business, he’d chew me a new one if he found out that I stayed here alone.
“Okay,” I agree and scoop up my carry-on. “Are you sure the roads are safe?”
He laughs. “You seem to forget that I was born and raised in Michigan. A few inches of slick snow are no match for me and my Range Rover.”
A tiny smile pulls at my lips. “Yeah, I hear you on that.”
We trek along the walkway and then make our way down to the baggage claim. As we descend the escalators there’s a man in a black suit holding a sign with Spencer’s name on it.
“I was under the impression that you were driving?”
He smirks. “It’s my vehicle, but Donnie, he’s my driver. Used to be a Formula One racer. I trust him with my life.”
My feet land on the tile and Spencer’s hand cups my elbow leading towards Donnie.
“Put that fucking sign in the trash, you dick.”
Donnie laughs. “This is just a precaution to make sure that you can still read. You took three sacks in the game the other night. Monday. Night. Football. Just testing your vision.”
“I can see your face. Maybe you’d like me to punch it?”
Donnie slaps Spencer’s thick shoulder. “Ouch. Don’t be touchin’ this mug. Who’s your lady friend?”
“This is Amy Robertsen. We grew up together, back in Michigan. She’s another Cranbrook Prep elite, like me.”
I huff a laugh. “Elite? I don’t know about that, but it’s nice to meet you, Donnie.”
“You too, Miss Amy.”
After Spencer grabs his suitcase from the carousel, we make our way out to his Range Rover. It’s barely snowing, now. But there’s a good eight inches on the ground. I’m sure this is just the calm before the storm.
While Donnie loads our luggage into the cargo area of the sleek black SUV, Spencer and I climb into the backseat.
“Heated seats—nice touch,” I tell him.
“I did a promo for the company and they insisted on the custom feature.”
“Hmm.”
My fingers curl into my palms and I feel the tension rise in my shoulders. As Donnie pulls into traffic. I love snow, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about driving in it. The tiniest weave, bobble, and slide has my heart thumping against my ribcage.
When I was sixteen, I was in a car accident. Nothing major, but it totaled my car. I hit black ice on a bridge, and it sent me slamming head-on into a guardrail.
Still scares me to this day, even though I’ve never had an accident since.
Knock on wood.
Spencer and Donnie chat the entire time about the game. I had been working late with a client and missed Monday Night Football. I’m surprised Alex didn’t text me. But with two kids, I’m not sure how much that cuts into his football time.
Donnie maneuvers the snowy streets without much trouble and before I know it, we’re turning into an underground garage.
“This is The Granite building.”
Spencer smiles. “It is.”
“I love the architecture of this building.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“I have a client who lives here.”
“Interesting. What do you do?”
“I’m a management analyst. Companies hire me to tell them what they could be doing better. Ways to improve their businesses and increase profits.”
“That’s interesting.” Spencer opens his door.
The man apparently likes the word, interesting.
Donnie unloads our luggage and then carries it up to the elevator, which Spencer tells him that he doesn’t need to do. But Donnie just waves him off.
“Thanks for picking me up. Now get home safely and enjoy the holiday.”
“Merry Christmas to you both,” Donnie says and then walks towards a bright red car parked a row behind Spencer’s.
“Merry Christmas,” I squeak out.
The elevator arrives and Spencer motions for me to step inside first. We sail up to the penthouse where Spencer slides his card into the keypad and keys in a five-digit code.
We step into a grand marble foyer with an ornate gold chandelier that illuminates the entire space. The elevator opens right into his place.
Wealth doesn’t intimidate me. My family has plenty of it and so does my brother and his wife. We’re all what you call, Trust Fund Babies. Unlike most, I enjoy working. Sure, I could jet off to remote locations and buy Birkin’s by the dozen, but that doesn’t make me happy.
And it sure as hell doesn’t help feed the homeless.
Or help military families.
Alex is a retired veteran. He and Ella host an annual charity fundraiser and they always hire me to plan the event. I’m good at planning events. It’s kind of a hobby.
“So, this is the place.” Spencer extends his arms and holy crap the wingspan on this man.
When Spencer turns to face me, I avert my eyes upward. The ceilings soar with exposed wood beams. The floor to ceiling windows offer panoramic views of the Manhattan skyline. It’s absolutely breathtaking.
A large glass fireplace separates the living room from the dining room. Everything that isn’t glass is wood. Everything that isn’t white is accented with greys and dark hues of blue.
“It’s really spectacular,” I tell him.
The only thing missing is the spirit of Christmas. No tree. No lights. No stockings. Just a bunch of unopened envelopes and a sad looking red poinsettia on the island.
Nothing here feels like Christmas.
Back home, I have two trees. One in my basement and one in my living room. I love Christmas. I’m the woman who starts listening to Christmas music the day after Halloween. The chill in the air and the frost on the ground. I get all nostalgic when the lights go up on Main Street. And I’m not even mad when the stores start to fill up with all things Christmas.
I’m a traditional watcher of the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Or give me some popcorn, a glass of wine, and a comfy blanket and I’m settling in for a Hallmark movie marathon.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll get started on dinner.”
He cooks? In this kitchen. It looks like it’s never been splattered with marinara sauce or dusted with flour.
His kitchen is made for holiday baking. There’s a ginormous island in the center for cater prep and a chopping block for convenience. Not to mention every appliance is gleaming stainless steel.
“You want some wine?” he asks, nodding at something behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to find an entire wall of wine behind a case of glass.
“Wow.”
He smiles and pulls a saucepan from the cupboard. “Go pick a bottle.”
I walk across the room eyeing a bottle of my favorite Louis Martini cabernet. “Red or white. What are we having?”
“My famous spaghetti Bolognese.”